


Even if it Hurts (Even if it Makes Me Bleed)

by DrowningByDegrees



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And how to reconcile it with personal agency, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, But not exactly a traditional soulmate story, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Especially for someone who has always experienced destiny as a negative, I really wanted to play with what a soulmate really is, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance, Said drugging is well-intentioned but it does exist, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, non-consensual drugging (of the magical variety)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees
Summary: Is that a pickup line? Maybe. It’s the worst one Geralt has ever heard in his very long life, but that isn’t the problem. The problem races, red hot down the length of his forearm, pooling uncomfortably around his soulmark. The scrawled out writing on the underside of his wrist had told Geralt the first thing his soulmate was going to say to him as soon as he could read. Silly as it had sounded, it’s even more ridiculous out loud.To say Geralt is not a fan of destiny is a monumental understatement. Given the fact that the soul mark scrawled out on his wrist is the worst pickup line he's ever heard, he doesn't anticipate his soulmate being any more welcome than anything else that life has saddled him with. But the longer he spends with Jaskier, the harder his soulmate is to resist, and somewhere along the way Geralt knows he'll have to reckon with whether his feelings are manufactured by kismet or truly his own.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 710
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my collaboration with the lovely [wandschrankheld](https://wandschrankheld.tumblr.com) for the 2020 Witcher Big Bang! Their art is embedded towards the tail end of the fic! <3
> 
> The biggest thank you to [geewobbles](https://geewobbles.tumblr.com/), who has been a fantastic beta and a delight to collab with. This fic wouldn't be what it is without you!
> 
> And if anyone cares where the title came from, it's [this song ](https://youtu.be/SqaNhYIxF0I)by Sam Tinnesz that sort of indirectly inspired the story <3

Posada isn’t a destination so much as a rest stop on his way. It barely even qualifies as that. There aren’t many people in the dusty little tavern, but they glance his way suspiciously until Geralt parks himself at a table away from everyone else. He just needs a drink and he’ll be on his way. Luckily for the witcher, some poor sod is plucking out a tune in the corner and the tavern patrons are quick to turn their ire on him instead. 

The ale is watery and bitter on his tongue, not at all worth the coin he paid for it. However, it’s an excuse to sit without those suspicious glares turning into anything more pointed, and Geralt has been on the road so long that even he can’t help relishing the opportunity to take a break. The bard in the corner stops playing, instead protesting something, judging from the indignant tone he’s sporting. Geralt tunes it out, and stares at his half empty mug, wishing for a little bit of peace. 

Peace is… not what he gets. A creak in the floor boards makes Geralt’s gaze snap upward to see the bard leaning against one of the support beams. “I love how you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

Is that a pickup line? Maybe. It’s the worst one Geralt has ever heard in his very long life, but that isn’t the problem. The problem races, red hot down the length of his forearm, pooling uncomfortably around his soulmark. The scrawled out writing on the underside of his wrist had told Geralt the first thing his soulmate was going to say to him as soon as he could read. Silly as it had sounded, it’s even more ridiculous out loud. 

Geralt looks the bard over and resists the urge to laugh at the idea that there could be any truth to soulmates. The bard is young and wide eyed, wrapped up in too bright colors. He looks like a damned peacock. There’s no room for someone so gaudy in a life like Geralt’s and certainly no space for anyone remotely serious beside this young man. 

And yet, the mark on Geralt’s wrist still pulses. 

Just in time, Geralt stops himself from trying to shoo the bard away. As he’s opening his mouth, it occurs to him that right now he can still avert this slow motion disaster. Whatever he says first is inevitably etched upon the bard’s skin, and when he speaks, two things will happen. The first is that the bard will feel it and probably want to run off together or some other fool thing. The second is that the bond between them will snap into place, drawing tighter until the only escape from each other is to complete it. 

So Geralt gives the bard a baleful look instead, a look said bard seems determined to misinterpret as ‘why yes, please do sit across the table from me’. He steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them, smiling like Geralt is currently the most fascinating thing on the entire continent. “I can’t tell if there’s some secret, tragic reason you don’t say anything or if the silent frowny face is your… schtick. Working for you though. It’s _veeeeery_ mysterious.”

Geralt sighs and resists the urge to cuff the bard upside his head just to shut the man up. Under the witcher’s sleeve, his soulmark throbs like it's reaching for it’s entirely unfortunate mate. Honestly, what has he done so horribly, completely wrong in his life that this is his soulmate? He didn’t even want one, but if they had to exist, this is proof enough for Geralt that soulmates are just the universe’s idea of a cruel joke. 

“Those both look, umm, sharp.” The bard waves his hand vaguely at Geralt’s swords, currently not looking anything of the sort considering they’re sheathed. “Wait. Two swords. You’re a witcher! Geralt of Rivia, if the hair is anything to judge by.”

This is quite enough, actually, as it’s become very clear to Geralt that his soulmate isn’t going to leave of his own volition. He’ll be damned if he risks tying them together, so Geralt doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even growl menacingly as much as he’d really like to. As pointedly as he can, he scowls at the bard and gathers up his swords. It’s not a retreat. He was always going to leave. He’s only moved up his timeline a little. 

If someone hadn’t heard the bard announcing his profession to the whole damned bar, it probably would have even worked out that way. Before he can reach the door, one of the villagers is stopping him, begging Geralt to sort out some ‘devil’ they’re convinced is tormenting Posada. Geralt thinks about turning it down in favor of engineering an escape, but the man looks so truly desperate, he can’t bring himself to. 

It’s that decision that sets everything else in motion. The beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning maybe. Either way, it’s a violent upheaval of the life he’d lived, the ruins a foundation for something new. 

***

The bard follows, because of course he does, running up the hill after Geralt and Roach. 

“I hope you don’t mind my tagging along,” the bard says, though he doesn’t shut up long enough for Geralt to convey that he actually minds very much. “This is just too much of an adventure to pass up.”

Adventure? The landscape is a sallow combination of dirt and sparse, dead grass. The devil he’s hunting down doesn’t even exist, most likely. There are activities he might consider even less like an adventure, but right now Geralt doesn’t know what they are. 

“- Oh, and I’m Jaskier. I think I neglected to say.” Geralt catches that much and realizes the bard, Jaskier, has been talking this whole time. 

Geralt glares at Jaskier, who either has the self-preservation instincts of an infant or is the most unorthodox human Geralt has ever met. He hopes it conveys how very much he doesn’t want to have a conversation. 

“So, I just figured, you know-” Jaskier’s hands sweep out in a grand, pointless gesture. “You could use the help with your reputation, and I could use some writing material. See? Everyone wins.”

Geralt doesn’t know what Jaskier is on about except that it sounds like he’s trying to invite himself on the road with a witcher. That is very much not going to happen. Even if it weren’t a terrible idea from a normal, standard human standpoint, this particular one suffers from a complete inability to stop _talking_.

“So? What do you think?”

"Fuck off, bard," Geralt snaps impulsively, breaking his carefully curated silence. Too late, he recognizes the mistake of that particular outburst. He shuts his mouth with a faint click of teeth, for all the good it does. If there were any possibility that this wasn’t a disaster, it fades away with the odd, warm sensation of a connection made. 

For a moment, there’s only tense silence between them. Geralt glowers at Jaskier. Jaskier stares back, his eyes wide with shock, slapping a hand instinctively over his sleeve where his mark must be, and gaping wordlessly in a way that might be a welcome change of pace under any other circumstances. Right now, the quiet is only a brief delay of an inescapable complication. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Geralt mutters, "Fuck."

"You... that's...I..." the bard begins in fits and starts, remarkably ineloquent after the deluge of one sided conversation he'd subjected Geralt to. He must know he’s floundering though, and eventually just shoves his wrist in Geralt's direction, the Witcher's aggravation scrawled across the delicate skin there. That’s a hell of a sentence to carry around one’s entire life and it’s the sort of thing that would be funny if only Geralt weren't stuck in the middle of it. Jaskier finally strings two words together in a row, in the shape of an indignant accusation. "You _knew_."

Annnnnnd there it is, any hope Geralt had of escaping unnoticed is summarily lost. Probably. It doesn’t stop him from trying though. Geralt arches a brow at Jaskier, his voice carefully neutral. "Is it really that uncommon for someone to curse at you?"

“Sure. Usually it comes with projectile rotten vegetables,” Jaskier sourly retorts. It’s the first thing he’s said that wasn’t accompanied by unnecessary theatrics. He sheds his doublet, and rolls up the sleeve of his chemise just enough to show the proof of their connection, red and angry like a new tattoo. “Not this.” 

Geralt lets his gaze settle on the mark Jaskier is sporting. His own throbs with unspent energy. That destiny would tie him to someone at all is preposterous, but Jaskier? Absolutely not. No amount of ‘fate tied us together’ nonsense is going to make them any less wrong for each other. 

So, Geralt does what he usually does when he’s decided a debate is over. He settles his grip on Roach’s reins and leads her further up the hill, away from Jaskier. “I don’t do soulmates.”

*****

Hopeless, star-crossed romance is the sort of thing Jaskier _thrives_ on. He’s dreamed up so many ways he and his soulmate might fall into each other’s lives. He’s dedicated many pages of many notebooks to imagining what his soulmate might be like. He’s faced every new person he ever met like they were brimming with possibility. Every new touch, every greeting could be the start of happily ever after, as much as anyone ever truly gets that. 

Not a single one of those daydreams played out anything like _this_. He managed to ignore the fact that Geralt was literally so unenthusiastic about Jaskier’s existence as to try and dodge fate entirely. At least until now. Now, with Geralt obstinately walking away, shoulders squared in a sort of dismissal, even Jaskier can’t pretend not to notice. 

A knot twists in the pit of his stomach at the unequivocal rejection. Jaskier had considered that meeting might be awkward, or that he might not immediately see the beauty of them. He hadn’t ever thought to brace himself for being unwanted, though. That didn’t happen. 

Except, apparently, to him. 

Well, it wasn’t like he could trade out for someone who maybe loathed him a little less, so Jaskier does the only thing he can think of. Cursing his ill suited boots, he runs after the witcher, “It’s not really an opt out kind of thing.”

The witcher doesn’t slow down, but he doesn’t run Jaskier off either. That’s… probably positive, right? The bard is practically an expert at salvaging unhappy situations, and given how stuck he is with this one, he decides to give it another go. 

“Look, at least it took our, our lifestyles into consideration? I travel around bringing the masses together with music. You travel around, umm, looking really very menacing…” Jaskier trails off as they get to the top of the hill and Geralt gives him a withering look. “Is that necessary?” 

“Be quiet, Jaskier.” Well, that was just patently unfair, because Jaskier wanted to be cross and ask where Geralt got off telling him what to do in the middle of rejecting him. Only then the witcher said his name, and it’s really a shame they got off to such a rocky start because in most other circumstances the sound of it on Geralt’s lips would be shivering delightfully down his spine. 

“Now, you just wait a minute-” is all Jaskier gets out before Geralt turns on him and slaps a gloved hand over his mouth. They’re so close that Jaskier can pick out the hairline streaks of ochre in Geralt’s golden eyes. It’s breathtaking, even though Geralt’s gaze is currently on the verge of something violent, punctuated with an irritated dip of the witcher’s eyebrows. 

“Stop. Talking.” Whatever else Geralt might have said (which is probably nothing if Jaskier is being honest) is cut off by a marble sized projectile smacking against the rocks beside them. Geralt releases Jaskier, already reaching for his sword, and spinning to face the bushes it had come from. 

It’s some small consolation that if Jaskier meeting his soulmate has been a complete disaster so far, at least he’ll get an adventure out of it. He thinks so anyway, but then another projectile hurtles in his direction. It smacks into his temple and the world goes black, and it turns out the adventure is pretty much a wash too. 

Unless, of course, one defines adventure as being tied up with a witcher at the mercy of an angry band of elves. Jaskier had been hoping for a lot less threat of imminent demise and a lot more vanquishing of monsters. This is a _terrible_ consolation prize. 

Funny how this morning Jaskier had woken up still believing the biggest hurdle to connecting with his eventual soulmate was going to be if they were attracted to each other enough to learn the rest. That’s the only part of anything that’s happened today that _isn’t_ a problem. Geralt is striking in ways Jaskier never would have guessed from the stories about the _Butcher of Blaviken_. When the light catches his eyes, he’s really quite beautiful. Now, if only he wasn’t also rude and unbelievably grouchy. 

There are moments in the whole ordeal when Jaskier is certain this is going to be the end of them both. And wouldn’t that be rich? Dying at the back of a soulmate who doesn’t even want him would make for quite the story anyway. Jaskier wishes he could be angry about it and he almost gets there. Only, it’s just then that Geralt has to go and be noble, trying to protect Jaskier from a fate the bard had really sort of walked himself into in the first place, trying to help the people ready to cut him down. 

_“Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.”_

Maybe it’s just that he’s lived his life steeped in poetry and romance, but the words feel significant, like he’s learned something Geralt didn’t mean to tell him. The echo of them lingers long after they’ve been set free, and alongside them are all the terrible stories he’s been told of what witchers are like. Geralt isn’t like any of the stories. He’s gruff and scathing, but the man Geralt of Rivia is underneath all that is undeniably good.

It could be a product of Jaskier’s vibrant imagination, but somewhere along the way, he theorizes Geralt’s sharp edges might be largely a matter of circumstance rather than of who he is. People are scared of witchers at the best of times so maybe nobody has ever bothered to show him any other way. It’s that firmly rooted belief that makes Jaskier determined to start over. This time, he’ll get it right. 

***

Geralt doesn’t get it. Jaskier should be running for the hills now that he knows how reality compares to whatever it was he was expecting traipsing after a witcher. Most humans shy away from his kind over far less. But Jaskier looks to be perfectly content to pluck the strings of his newly gifted lute and feel out the lyrics of a song. 

It’s a song that makes Geralt out to be heroic, well, heroic in the ways that humans measure. Even if it were true, Geralt doesn’t consider fighting elves to be the makings of any kind of hero, “That’s not how it happened.”

Jaskier turns on his heel to look up at Geralt, a smile tugging at his lips, “The idea is to reach people, Geralt. Sometimes the naked truth isn’t how you do it.” 

Geralt had thought he had the bard figured out, but it’s nothing so simple as the vapid enthusiasm Jaskier cloaks himself in. His complaining in what Geralt assumed was Elder suggested and education he hides under a foppish demeanor, but it isn’t only that. Jaskier had chosen to spend what certainly seemed like it was going to be the last few minutes of their lives shouting at the elves in Geralt’s defense. He’s spinning out a song like a skein of yarn that’s clearly meant to soften the world around Geralt, though the witcher has given him no reason at all to do so. Quite the opposite, Geralt can acknowledge, at least to himself. 

So, Jaskier is a little bit more than what Geralt had thought. It doesn’t make the bard less aggravating, and it doesn’t change that he’s far too human for the life Geralt lives. There’s no amount of moxie that’s likely to sway Geralt, but it’s interesting all the same. 

By the time they reach Posada, Jaskier has settled on lyrics to this song about elves and coin tossing, and whatever else. Geralt had honestly stopped listening. He sticks around long enough to lead Jaskier to the crossroads before addressing him, “This is where we part ways.” 

“What?” Jaskier looks so genuinely stricken, it’s startling. Why would anyone want their life tied to someone else? Why would anyone want it tied to a _witcher_? But however much Jaskier has subverted his expectations, what was true before is true now. Geralt has no intention of indulging in this soulmate nonsense.

When Geralt doesn’t reply, Jaskier takes a step closer, and then another. He looks up, though the sun must be nearly in his eyes, and frowns deeply at Geralt, “Surely, you wouldn’t just _leave_.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Geralt had thought it was pretty obvious. He’s already on Roach. There’s no contract to turn in. Nothing at all is keeping him in Posada at this point. 

Jaskier’s scandalized expression suggests he’s missed something. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said this isn’t a thing you opt out of. If you leave me here, you’re just going to torture us both.” 

The bard meets Geralt’s eye remarkably steady, enough that the witcher is very nearly convinced to at least think about it. He’s never studied anything related to soul marks, but he can’t think of any stories he’s heard about soulmates being unable to separate. “That isn’t how it works.” 

“Oh _really?_ ” Somewhere along the way, Jaskier put his lute away, which Geralt might not have paid much attention to, but now he’s crossing his arms like someone’s disappointed parent. “Tell me, witcher. Of the two of us, who probably took the time to know what they’re talking about because, however stupidly, they were looking forward to it? Because I really don’t think it was you.” 

Jaskier makes a good argument, forcing Geralt to stop and think. It might be, if they proceed as normal, that things will be fine and Geralt will walk away with a little more than an uncomfortably warm tattoo for his efforts. But if Jaskier is right, he’s just going to have to come back for the bard later for both their sakes, which is a hassle for everyone. 

And then there’s Jaskier’s expression. Without the excitement of a monster hunt or a kidnapping, and without a song to throw himself into, Jaskier’s perpetually sunshiney expression falters. He’s clearly trying to hide it, turning away where Geralt can’t see, but the witcher can smell the sorrow and distress all over him. 

Humans care a lot about soulmates in both the abstract and the concrete. They build their lives around this concept. While Geralt has no need for one in his own life, it’s obvious that it matters to Jaskier. Idly, Geralt wonders if it’s the bond holding them together, but he feels… something about Jaskier’s wounded expression. It’s dismay, he decides. 

He’s just shaken the foundations of everything Jaskier has been planning for, Geralt finally realizes. Whether it’s the bond or a crisis of conscience, Geralt’s chest tightens. He doesn’t want a soulmate, but he also has no interest in orchestrating a lifetime of misery for someone whose only real crime has been an inability to shut up. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Geralt lets out a quiet sigh. He’s going to hate himself for this. He _already_ hates himself for this. So, before he can decide to be sensible again, Geralt concedes, “Don’t slow me down.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier is certain Geralt warms up to him a little bit after that. He rides slowly enough that Jaskier can keep up, even if the pace is a little harder than what the bard is used to. From someone who had been so vehement about running Jaskier off earlier, that is practically an invitation. He hardly says a word, but he isn’t telling Jaskier to stop talking either. 

For someone who wants to be rid of him, Geralt is kind in odd ways. Maybe it’s only that neither of them have the luxury of leaving, but still he dumps a blanket on him that smells vaguely like Roach when he shivers on a particularly chilly evening. He still wordlessly shoves half a rabbit that’s been roasted over the campfire at him when they’re settled in for the night. Whatever Geralt thinks of him, the witcher’s unfriendly exterior is clearly just a front that hides an innate sort of goodness.

Now that the initial shock of their circumstances has worn off, it’s less daunting to put in perspective. Jaskier fancies himself to be a plucky sort of person, and he’s had to face far worse things than a bad first impression. This was a particularly important impression, and that’s rather unfortunate, but the point stands anyway. 

So Jaskier forges on, trying out lyrics and brief snippets of a melody, opting to make the best of it. The debacle in Posada aside, he’s not actually so bad at swaying an audience. Maybe he can change people’s minds about Geralt. And maybe, if he is very lucky, somewhere along the way he’ll change Geralt’s mind about him. 

With a plan coming together at the back of Jaskier’s mind, he feels more settled. By the time he successfully makes a case that it’s to Geralt’s benefit for them to go into town because it’s the best place for Jaskier to make any real contribution to their travels, the song he’s been mulling over is finished. He’s giddy at the prospect of putting it out into the world, high on the possibility that he could make a difference.

***

The village isn’t really that much more than Posada, but there’s a tavern with a room to rent and a bar to play in, which Jaskier figures is all he needs. Like everything else in his life, Jaskier rushes headlong into his current scheme, before he can second guess himself. Perhaps before he can suddenly develop any sense of self preservation, as if that were ever a possibility. 

And that is how, while Geralt is stabling Roach and checking the message board, Jaskier winds up in an open space on the floor, doing his damnedest to draw the crowd’s attention. However unfortunate the whole nonsense in Posada was, Jaskier does know how to read a room. He’ll only get one chance to get this right, so when Jaskier begins playing, it’s not the composition he’s been working on, but a well known ditty meant to draw people in. 

It works. Jaskier plays a folk song and then another and by the time he’s done, he has a captive audience. The thrill of their eyes on him, clamoring for more skates like lightning along his limbs, a feeling Jaskier has to wrestle into the background as he puts it all at risk. Taking a breath, Jaskier plucks out the beginning of a tune. The melody, he knows, is catchy, but the lyrics are rather suspect. 

_When a humble bard_

_Graced a ride along_

_With Geralt of Rivia_

_Along came this song_

He flashes a smile at the crowd before launching into the next stanza. He doesn’t look though, doesn’t dare for fear of what might be waiting in response. As if he’s already accomplished his goal, Jaskier presses on, spinning a tale that bears only a passing resemblance of events as they truly happened. But it’s no accident, and it runs deeper than artistic license. You change minds, not by telling the truth, but by making people _believe_ the truth. To him, the truth is that Geralt, for every scowl and sharp word, is noble and kind (if perhaps reluctantly so). 

Geralt is good and Jaskier means to work to change the world until they all see it. But it has to start somewhere, so Jaskier starts here, willing the tavern patrons to hear the message underneath all his pretty words, and to believe him. When the need to know if he’s reaching them overwhelms the fear that he’s failing, Jaskier finally takes in the crowd around him. 

They’re not singing along, but that means very little for a song no one’s ever heard. They’re not cheering or clapping along either and that’s… admittedly disappointing, but Jaskier doesn’t falter. They’re not throwing things at him, and in the grand expanse of ways this could have gone, that all on its own is a win. 

He’s resigned himself to a mediocre success when he sees it, at the far end of the tavern. The man is continuing his conversation with another villager at his table, but he’s tapping his foot in time to the music. It’s a small thing, but it’s enough. Change that happens in tiny ways to one person at a time is still change. 

As focused as Jaskier is, he nearly misses Geralt’s return. The witcher watches Jaskier from the open doorway as Jaskier begins to wind down, his expression neutral in a way that the bard has learned isn’t really neutral at all. He’s not sure what this one does mean though, so Jaskier doesn’t dwell on it too much. Ever the opportunist, he capitalizes on Geralt’s entrance, gesturing grandly to the witcher, smiling at the crowd. “I give you the White Wolf himself.”

And alright, it doesn’t provoke a cheer from the audience the way Jaskier had secretly hoped, but the suspicion he knows people usually reserve for witchers is muted. It’s a start, and a start is all he needs. That he catches the innkeeper’s wife bringing Geralt a mug and a plate of something and refusing the witcher’s attempt to pay only bolsters that notion. 

High on the sense of success, Jaskier flies through the chorus one more time before excuses himself. Geralt pays him very little mind when he slides onto the bench across the table. As always, it falls to Jaskier to start a conversation. “Well, that went… well. All considered. No one complained about it anyway.”

“Hmm.” The sound is vague, though as often as Geralt refuses to reply with more than a grunt, Jaskier is beginning to decipher them. This one sounds a little bit doubtful. 

“What did you think?” Jaskier asks, because he ought to, even though it means bracing himself for the inevitable complaint about accuracy. 

Geralt does look at him then, with eyes like molten gold. They’re the most obviously inhuman part of him, and they’re beautiful. They’re the kind of beautiful that Jaskier suspects he could quite happily get lost in if Geralt would only let him. 

“White Wolf?” Geralt arches an eyebrow, dragging Jaskier back to the moment. It’s… not amused exactly, and Jaskier spends a moment thinking about the right word for something adjacent to amused before he remembers that that was a question. 

“Well, it’s better than what they’ve _been_ calling you. Besides, leaving aside the woeful inaccuracy of the Butcher of Blaviken, it’s an entirely unreasonable number of syllables,” Jaskier explains, realizing only after he’s done so that he might have stepped in it. A name like that must sting. 

The unhappy expression Jaskier anticipates never comes. Instead, Geralt’s forehead scrunches a bit in the middle, like he’s puzzled. That’s monumentally better than upset, so Jaskier doesn’t even complain that the look is there and gone, and then Geralt is back to ignoring him in favor of dinner instead. 

*****

_Woeful inaccuracy._

The turn of phrase sticks with Geralt long after Jaskier has moved onto other things. It’s all but impossible to follow, but Geralt has found that it’s simplest to let Jaskier get it out of his system. At least that way he might be persuaded to shut up long enough for them to sleep. 

But in the end, Geralt can’t even blame Jaskier for their quiet conversation long after they’ve blown out the candles lighting the room. 

“How do you know?” Geralt asks, a hushed sort of question as he stares at the ceiling of their room in the dark. 

Jaskier flicks an eye open to look at Geralt from the other side of the bed, and the witcher absently wonders how much he can see when even the moon doesn’t help to coax the shadows away. “Know what?”

“That it isn’t accurate,” It’s a stupid question. Geralt shouldn’t care, because the only thing special about Jaskier is that the universe has decided to play a joke on them both. He means to drop it, but Jaskier replies too quickly. 

“I know _you_.” It comes with a crooked smile in Geralt’s direction. The confidence in those words should be unsettling, but it’s far too warm to be uncomfortable. 

“It’s been a week, Jaskier. You know fuck all about me,” Geralt rumbles back. He means to sound irritated or put upon, but the roughness he’d intended never comes. 

Jaskier has the audacity to laugh, though there’s nothing mocking about it. Objectively, it’s a pleasant sound, the kind you want to curl up and make a home in, and Geralt wonders, just for a second, how things might have gone in a different version of events where Destiny wasn’t hanging over their heads. 

“I don’t need to know your story to know _you_. I saw all I needed to right from the start.” There’s something terribly contradictory about what is practically a confession being said so casually, but Jaskier doesn’t flinch away. “I’d be a pretty terrible bard if I couldn’t be a quick judge of character.”

It’s the first direct thing Jaskier has said about what kind of person he thinks Geralt is, and somehow the sentiment hits harder than expected. He doesn’t give a damn what the soulmate he didn’t ask for thinks of him, and yet... 

“You _are_ a terrible bard,” he rumbles, clawing his way back to solid ground. 

It earns exactly the hoped for response. Jaskier smacks him in the arm, all intimacy forgotten, “You take that back!”

Vulnerable honesty slinks away and sharp edged banter sweeps in, much to Geralt’s relief. The back and forth isn’t wholly unpleasant if he’s being honest. More importantly, it shines a light on anything but him. Eventually, even Jaskier runs out of steam. Whatever nonsense he’s been prattling on about slows until it tapers off entirely and they sleep. 

*****

It’s only a matter of time before Geralt’s line of work becomes a relevant consideration. The worst Jaskier’s job subjects the witcher to is an evening sulking in a dark corner somewhere, which Jaskier is pretty sure he’s wont to do all on his own anyway. In an abstract way, Jaskier knew that the last contract he had tagged along on wasn’t particularly illustrative of reality, but it hadn’t really occurred to him what reality was. 

Until now that is, slogging through a murky Velen swamp on the tail of Geralt’s current contract. Watery mud squelches under his boots as he trudges along beside Geralt. The witcher is about as talkative as ever, barely sparing Jaskier an occasional glance as he surveys their surroundings. 

“So, what _is_ a bloedzuiger?” Jaskier asks, because he has the good sense not to get his lute out, but he’s bored out of his skull trudging through the muck. 

The bard glances over at Geralt when he doesn’t answer, but the witcher is pulling the cork out of a vial with his teeth and swallowing down the dark, viscous contents. It’s one of the potions Geralt carries, but Jaskier doesn’t know enough about them to have any idea which one. He’s not even certain what it’s supposed to do beyond the strange, black spiderweb stretching out across Geralt’s pale skin. 

He doesn’t realize he’s thoughtlessly reached out to touch until he feels Geralt’s fingers close around his wrist. The witcher looks at him then, and Jaskier sucks in a surprised breath as he takes in Geralt’s expression. It’s as if his pupils have consumed his striking golden irises and been ravenous for more, leaving only inky depths behind. Ever so slightly, he thinks he catches Geralt flinch under his gaze, the corners of the witcher’s mouth tugging downward. It’s a subtle thing, but Jaskier thinks he maybe understands, that Geralt thinks this is where it will be realized that he is precisely the monster people call him. 

Only, Jaskier is having none of it. He’s never had trouble finding beauty in unorthodox places, and this is no exception at all. When Geralt lets go, Jaskier lingers in his space. “Does it hurt?”

Geralt’s brows furrow, and he doesn’t say anything at first. He’s stopped moving though, so Jaskier is reasonably sure of having his attention. Something hangs between them, thick and palpable despite its namelessness. If Jaskier could just grab it. 

“They’re giant leeches,” Geralt suddenly says, shaking his head as if to clear it. The moment passes and Geralt presses forward as if they’d never stopped at all. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Jaskier asks as he hurries after Geralt, nose scrunching in distaste at the way the swamp sucks at his boots. 

“Bloedzuigers.”

“We’re hunting… giant leeches?” Jaskier’s nose crinkles in distaste. Somehow, he doesn’t think this one is going to make a very good song. 

“ _I_ am,” Geralt retorts, as they make their way through the swamp. “ _You_ are staying out of the way.” 

Jaskier stumbles on a fallen branch. He catches himself, but it slows the bard enough that he finds himself staring at Geralt’s back. “That’s not very nice. I could help.” 

Geralt at least looks at him then, dark, fathomless eyes settling coolly on Jaskier. “What are you going to do? Sing to it? Even if you were competent with a sword, they spit acid when they’re alive and they explode when they die.”

With an annoyed huff, Jaskier picks up the pace, but Geralt has already turned away again, watching something in the distance. “I could be competent with a sword. How would you know? You’ve never asked.” 

“Are you?” 

Jaskier hesitates. Okay, probably a bad example. “Well… no, but-” 

Geralt shuts him up with a scowl that’s all the more imposing like this. “Then stay out of the way.” 

Jaskier likes to think he would have complied, but he never gets the chance. Before they can find their quarry (fine, Geralt’s quarry), it finds them. 

For once, Geralt’s description of something is entirely adequate, at least in terms of appearance. What rises up from the murky swamp water very definitely looks to be a giant leech. It’s hulking mass, slick with swamp water and sporting… suckers? Teeth? Jaskier isn’t really sure because he’s too busy stumbling back out of the way to get a good look, but they take up all the space where a creature’s face ought to be. 

Jaskier barely dodges out of the way of the liquid the creature sprays in his direction. Down, next to his right boot, it hisses and bubbles, dispersing in the water. That would be the acid, then. 

“Right. Right. Okay. No need to panic,” Jaskier rambles as he scrambles backward right into a tree. The bloedzuiger is looking right at him, as much as it seems able to look at anything. It’s weird, possibly a mouth thing is pointed right at him anyway, and the creature tenses all over, ready to spit at him again. “Geralt!”

This is where he dies, Jaskier thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face into the tree trunk as much as he can. Any second now. There’s a loud squelching sort of sound and the creature bellows, but the killing blow Jaskier had imagined never comes. 

Later, he’ll realize that it’s not actually all that exciting or impressive as far as monster fights go. Right now, though? Right now he’s never had anything to compare it to, and once the immediate danger is passed, he finds himself completely entranced by his soulmate. Geralt moves with a catlike sort of grace that’s entirely at odds with everything else about him. Jaskier is terribly relieved when the battle drifts away from where he’s standing, but even from here he can see the black lines that creep across Geralt’s pale skin framing his pitch black eyes. Objectively speaking, there’s no reason that ought to be attractive, and yet he can’t seem to look away. 

That’s probably why he misses when Geralt buries a sword in the monster and dives out of the way. And that’s probably why it doesn’t occur to him to get out of the area of impact for the coming explosion. 

“Look out!” In Jaskier’s defense, Geralt doesn’t actually give him any time to do said looking out before tackling the bard down into the frankly disgusting swamp water. He doesn’t need to see what happens after that. Jaskier has never heard something explosive also sound so wet, but it gives him all the visual he needs, and for a second, he assumes that’s the end of it. 

It’s only once the commotion settles that he hears the pained hiss that something drags from Geralt. Right. The witcher had shielded him, not because it would be gross to end up covered in bloedzuiger bits, but because said bits would kill him. Which leaves Jaskier safe, but panicking over what it might have done to Geralt in the process.

*****

Geralt has been doing this “witchering” as Jaskier calls it, for a very, _very_ long time, and that’s perhaps what makes the situation marginally less awful. This isn’t the first injury time he’s been injured in a fight by far, and it definitely won’t be the last, and so when he registers that the pain at his back is an acid burn, he moves almost on automatic. 

Satisfied that Jaskier isn’t going to die horribly, Geralt pushes himself upright, leaving his soulmate half sprawled in the swamp water. Every movement is more agonizing than the last, but there’s nothing for it, and the longer he dallies, the worse it’ll be. 

Clenching his teeth, Geralt hastily starts in on the fastenings of his armor. Where normally he’d take care with it, mostly he just needs to get rid of the contaminated shirt underneath. Distantly, he realizes there should have been a splash when he dropped the armor, but he’s too busy dealing with his shirt to think much on it. 

“Geralt!” The volume Jaskier says his name at suggests he’s been repeating himself for a while, and once Geralt manages to escape his ruined shirt, he glances in the bard’s direction. He’s holding Geralt’s armor in his hands, even though he’s the sort of person who complains about any kind of mess and the leather is positively filthy. “What can I do?” 

“I-” Funny that that would be the thing that trips Geralt up. He’s done this on his own for so long that it never even occurred to him that Jaskier would want to help. “Don’t need help. You shouldn’t touch that until it’s been rinsed off. There could be acid on it.” 

“Well, it’s a little late for _that_ ,” Jaskier points out, but he does find a relatively dry rock to set the armor on. Geralt, foolish man that he is, almost believes it’s Jaskier taking his advice and getting out of the way for once, but that’s never been the case before, and he has no idea why it would start being now. As it turns out, Jaskier is just freeing up his hands in favor of grabbing his water skin. “If it’s bad for the armor, Melitele knows it’s not good for you.” 

Geralt is just surprised enough that when Jaskier gestures for him to turn around, he goes. The bard hisses sympathetically, grasping Geralt’s arm to keep him still, and against all reason, the witcher allows it. The burn hurts all by itself, and any sort of contact even more so, but even he has to admit that the cool water against his flank is soothing underneath the painful pressure. 

Jaskier pours what must be the whole water skin over the burn, lingering at Geralt’s back afterwards. “What do you even do for this sort of thing?” 

Geralt’s brows furrow. “It’ll heal.”

“Well I know that,” Jaskier steps back into Geralt’s line of sight, lips tugging up in a way that feels like it’s pulling Geralt’s heartstrings with it. “But it’s gotta hurt in the meantime.” 

When it becomes clear that Jaskier is not going to accept waiting for it to heal on its own, Geralt relents with a sigh, and directs the bard to a small tin of salve meant for just this sort of thing. Not that Geralt usually bothers with it. Jaskier tends to pick inexplicable battles, Geralt’s current status being one of them, and eventually the witcher decides the path of least resistance is to just let him. 

Geralt isn’t sure why he’s surprised by Jaskier’s delicate touch. He’s dextrous with his lute. He’s clumsy sometimes, but not usually with anything requiring precision. Yet, the careful, feather light brush of Jaskier’s salve covered fingers startles him. It stings, but not so badly as Geralt would have expected. 

There aren’t any bandages in his pack, so when Jaskier withdraws his hands only to bring them back with fabric in tow, Geralt turns to try and look. The angle is awkward, but he can just make out one finely embroidered shirt sleeve. “What are you doing?”

“Improvising. What does it look like?” Jaskier winds the shirt fabric around Geralt as if he’s spun glass and not a largely indestructible witcher. 

It raises a number of questions, but the one that comes out is, “You brought a change of clothes to a swamp?”

“ _Some_ of us would rather be fit to be seen in polite company,” Jaskier complains. He ties off the sleeves of the shirt, fingers lingering against Geralt’s bare skin. It’s… not unpleasant. “And besides. It’s a good thing I did, isn’t it?” 

He knows, objectively, that Jaskier is kind, but it’s still very hard to parse anyone making a concerted effort to be kind to him. So, Geralt graciously doesn’t mention that it wouldn’t have mattered much one way or the other. The trek back would have been admittedly much more painful, but he’d have managed.

“You saved my life.” Jaskier lets go, and some part of Geralt sort of mourns the loss of contact. It’s a stupid sentiment, driven by their bond Geralt assumes. But bond or no, Jaskier’s smile is a pleasant thing to look at. “Thank you.” 

Was it somehow a surprise that he would protect Jaskier? That seems unlikely, but the expression of gratitude leaves Geralt feeling a little wrong footed anyway. It’s a little too earnest to be comfortable, so Geralt closes off any potential conversations. “Hmm.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt spends less time scowling at him after that. Jaskier thinks he does anyway. The witcher’s changes in expression are often so minute that it’s taking a concerted effort to start cataloguing them all. 

Jaskier doesn’t suffer any illusion that he’s wanted, per se, but not actively unwanted is sort of an improvement. It’s enough of an improvement that when Geralt suggests (insists, really) that they need to figure out how much wiggle room they have, it doesn’t feel so much like he’s being abandoned. 

The answer to that question turns out to be actually quite a lot. Geralt leaves Jaskier at camp with Roach. It’s probably just a matter of practicality, but Jaskier can’t help thinking maybe it’s to ease the gnawing sort of worry that Geralt won’t come back. 

Whatever the reason, once Jaskier is settled, Geralt disappears into the trees. Jaskier watches until he can no longer pick out the silvery fall of Geralt’s hair among the shadows. He feels… nothing. 

Minutes stretch out and eventually Jaskier unpacks his lute, just to distract himself from the utter lack of anything. There’s a new worry beginning to creep in, that he’s the one who was mistaken about this, that Geralt will dump him somewhere after all. Jaskier stubbornly tamps that one down. There’s no sense in borrowing trouble when he’s got plenty already. 

He loses himself in composing, so much so that he doesn’t notice at first. It’s just a twinge, a thread of despair, and Jaskier assumes it’s just that the mood of the sort of maudlin song he’s writing is catching. It’s a useful sort of background noise for the mood he’s trying to capture, so Jaskier leans into it, thumbing at the strings of his lute as he mulls over lyrics. 

The pressure builds so quietly that Jaskier doesn’t notice. It’s a subtle creep, spilled ink spreading across paper. He has reason to be a little sad, doesn’t he? Oh, he puts on a brave face, but there’s no one around now to see if he hangs his head, fingers stilling against the strings of his instrument. His whole world is upended, and he’s tethered to someone who’s already made up their mind that they don’t want him. If his mood has slipped towards something like grief, Jaskier thinks he’s earned it. 

And yet, it’s still Geralt’s eyes that he sees when he closes his own against this newfound despondency. With no evidence to prove the theory, he distantly thinks that if Geralt would just come back, the world would right itself again. It hadn’t felt so hopeless before, had it? And yet, if loneliness had a physical sensation, it would be this. He can’t really pinpoint where it hurts or when the heartache took a more concrete shape, but anguish leaves him feeling like he’s in a vice grip. The weight is bruising and awful, but it’s only as he finds himself struggling to breathe that Jaskier realizes this might be the effect of the distance between them. 

It only gets worse, and Jaskier can’t imagine trudging through the woods like this, gasping and fighting off the way the world is going gray at the edges. But it’s not getting better, so Geralt must still be moving, and as Jaskier sits heavily on the ground, the most horrifying thought of all crosses his addled mind. He’d never put much stock in that rumor that witchers couldn’t feel, but… but what if it was true and that was why Geralt hadn’t turned back? 

Jaskier never gets the opportunity to follow that line of reasoning to its conclusion before everything is decidedly too much for too long. He thinks there’s a certain sort of irony to this. He thinks he is going to die here. And then, Jaskier thinks nothing at all.

*****

Geralt traipses through the woods for a good half hour, steadily putting space between them, waiting for the awful sting of whatever distance was too far, when he first entertains the notion that Jaskier is mistaken. The bard hadn’t been lying, at least not intentionally, but Geralt can think of no other explanation. 

Really, this excursion is a blessing either way. It’s the longest stretch of silence Geralt has managed since Jaskier took up with him. It’s a brief return to normalcy, and he’s grateful, or he means to be. It’s somewhat spoiled by the unease coiled in the pit of his stomach. 

Taking a deep breath, Geralt centers himself. There’s nothing to be concerned about, no reason for the doubt stubbornly encroaching. He’s just proving a point, and when it’s irrefutably clear that they don’t actually need each other, Geralt will leave Jaskier in the next town and they’ll be done with this charade already. 

He doesn’t need a soulmate, and Jaskier… Jaskier, who insists on traipsing through the wilderness in bright silks, Jaskier who complains right and left, but never about the parts of this that are Geralt’s fault, Jaskier who is sunshine incarnate most certainly does not need a witcher. The reasoning checks out and that should settle it, Geralt thinks, but the millstone weight that is whatever mess they’re in only grows heavier. To Geralt’s dismay, nothing is settled at all. 

_I saw all I needed to right from the start_. Again, Geralt circles back to that, to the certainty with which Jaskier said it, to the intent couched in the bard’s insistence. He’d been seen in that moment, but now that vulnerability is an ill fitting garment over an aching wound. Jaskier knows fuck all about Geralt, and he’s going to be gone long before that has any hope of changing. It’s not like Geralt wants that to change anyway.

It all makes so much sense in the moment, that Geralt doesn’t recognize his spiraling thoughts for what they are. It’s not a thing that happens to him, so he has little to compare it to that would indicate a problem. Said problem makes itself known sometime later in the shape of a warm drop of water, hanging in a vaguely itchy, uncomfortable way at his jawline before falling away. 

That would be perplexing enough, all on its own, but it’s followed by another and another. Unsure whether he’s more embarrassed or confused to recognize that they’re tear drops, Geralt hastily scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hand. How completely absurd this all is, crying over something so inconsequential as the distance between them. It’s distance he _wanted_. He hasn’t cried since before the Trials, he doesn’t think, and hadn’t even thought he still could, but now he’s tearing up over it like a man possessed, like some part of him is breaking, like the strain on their bond is unsurmountable. 

All at once, Geralt realizes that this sorrow belongs as much to the soul bond as it does to him. The soul bond that he was testing the limits of, and if it’s done this to him, how could a human possibly fare?

“Fuck,” Geralt curses and takes off for the clearing where he left jaskier. 

\---

“Jaskier?”

Silence is all that meets him when he reaches the clearing they’d set up camp in. Geralt’s gaze is immediately drawn to Jaskier’s lute, unceremoniously dumped on the ground in a way that makes the witcher’s stomach lurch. That he spots Jaskier right after, collapsed in a heap on the ground most certainly doesn’t help. If his need to be free of this ridiculous bond has gotten Jaskier seriously hurt, he… 

He honestly doesn’t know, actually, but Geralt runs over anyway, kneeling beside Jaskier’s prone form. Instinct, or something like it, guides his hands to brush the hair from Jaskier’s face, to confirm the bard is still breathing. Jaskier is clearly out cold, but his chest steadily rises and falls, and something strangely wounded in Geralt begins to settle. 

It’s the bond. Logically, he knows that’s why he feels twitchy when he lets Jaskier go, even though it’s just to lay out a bedroll. He knows it’s why, when he lifts Jaskier from the ground, every inch of him wants to press closer, to chase away the awful emptiness that still haunts him. Logic does nothing to abate the urge to lie down and curl up with Jaskier until things feel normal again. 

Geralt does none of the things his body is convinced it wants. The most Geralt will allow is sitting alongside Jaskier’s sleeping form, close enough to hear the endless beating of his heart. And it goes like that, right up until it doesn’t. 

“G’ralt?” Jaskier mumbles, drawing Geralt’s attention. The witcher glances down at Jaskier’s bleary eyes and soft hair… soft hair that he’s got his fingers buried in, rubbing slow, lazy circles against the bard’s scalp. 

Before Geralt is even finished processing that development, Jaskier presses his face against the witcher’s thigh, like there is comfort in this. Like it is not Geralt that put him here in the first place. Geralt means to put some distance between them now that he’s certain Jaskier isn’t dead, but his fingers won’t seem to stray, and his mouth refuses to shape the rejection he means to convey. “I’ve got you.” 

For a long while, there is nothing else. Jaskier is uncharacteristically silent, his body still in a way he never manages of his own accord. It troubles Geralt that he recognizes that, but it troubles him more that that’s the case. He doesn’t want to ask what’s gotten into Jaskier, but there’s a strange, clawing need to know. Jaskier saves him the trouble of figuring out how to cross that bridge, as the bard so often does. 

“Does that mean you didn’t feel it?” Geralt has heard Jaskier disappointed, dejected even, but now he sounds so… small. There’s such a defeated quality to it, Geralt doesn’t even bristle at the question Jaskier is asking underneath all that.

It would be easy to just let Jaskier draw his own conclusions. At the very least, it wouldn’t feel so… so vulnerable. But Jaskier flinches away from the answer Geralt hasn’t even given yet and the witcher is quick to blame the bond for the inclination to beckon Jaskier back. “It’s complicated.” 

“Tell me?” Jaskier pushes himself to sit up, a fatigued sort of grimace twisting upon his lips. He all but plasters himself to Geralt’s side in a way that bears no resemblance to the restraint he’d been showing so far. The witcher almost pushes Jaskier off, aggravated by the way it soothes something frantic in him, but in the end, he just ignores this turn of events entirely. With a quiet hum, Jaskier rests his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder. “I want to know you.” 

They’re teetering on the edge of something, but Geralt cannot see through the smoke to know where they’ll land. The urge to wrap an arm around Jaskier wars with the handful of things he knows are true underneath the bond’s influence. The biggest, most glaring thing of all is that he never wanted a soulmate. 

Whatever softness he might have managed dies on his lips. Nudging Jaskier to sit up on his own, putting a little space between them, he raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you already did.” 

“I…” For a second, Geralt thinks Jaskier is going to argue. Maybe that he wishes the bard would. But the moment comes and goes, and Jaskier hunches in on himself a little, expression shuttering behind a smile so staged that even Geralt recognizes the lie of it. “Right.” 

It’s what Geralt wants, he thinks of Jaskier abruptly wobbling to his feet to put some space between them. The fact that he drags his bedroll along lends some finality to it all. If Geralt almost reaches out to stop him, it has nothing to do with anything the witcher actually wants. It’s just a bond neither of them asked for that yearns to follow. It’s just a cosmic accident that makes him a little bit sick to his stomach when he hears Jaskier mumble from the depths of his bedroll, words that probably weren’t even meant to be heard. “I just didn’t want you to be hurting too.” 

*****

Morning comes entirely too soon as far as Jaskier is concerned. There’s a drained feeling, the way a good cry leeches everything away, but there’s none of the catharsis. Mostly, Jaskier feels hollowed out. He wants to be angry about the night before. Jaskier _is_ angry even, in a distant sort of way, but even that justified bitterness slips from his grasp when his bleary gaze settles on Geralt. 

Without really meaning to, Jaskier has begun to learn the subtleties of his soulmate. The tension in Geralt’s shoulders would have been invisible once, but Jaskier’s eyes immediately track to the slightly stiff set of them. It’s so minute that it’s hard to be certain it’s not just the bulk of the man’s armor. Distress pulls at the witcher’s mouth in a way that isn’t quite a frown, but is miles and miles away from neutral. Geralt may look to be his usual stoic self to the casual observer, but Jaskier is no such thing. Under other circumstances, he’d be pleased that he’s learned to translate, but the message that Geralt is hurting too is one he doesn’t begin to know what to do with. 

Whatever he does with it, Jaskier knows he’s not going to find a handhold in the resentment he’d curled up in the night before. He knows it down to his bones, the way he knows the urge to smooth away the slight wrinkle between Geralt’s brows has nothing at all to do with their bond. Unfortunately, Jaskier recognizes with the same sort of certainty that Geralt wouldn’t take well to any direct approach. 

Well… he’s getting to be pretty good at steering crowds in the right direction. Surely, he can manage one taciturn witcher. Settling on a course of action, he smiles with all his usual levity. Jaskier’s tone is carefully light, as if nothing at all had happened the night before. “Morning.”

The seconds stretch out what seems like forever. Geralt’s expression shifts minutely, guarded as if expecting some sort of trap, but the incredulous huff he replies with is closer to normal than Jaskier had dared hope. “Barely.”

“Yes, well some of us don’t feel the need to be up before the sun.” Jaskier presses his luck, needling Geralt the way he always does. 

And _there_ it is. Geralt makes a point of glancing towards where the sun is sitting far above the horizon and raises an eyebrow. Jaskier isn’t certain if it’s a look borne of amusement or exasperation, but either way, Geralt doesn’t look wounded for the moment, so he’s going to call it a win. “That excuse ran its course hours ago.”

“You could have woken me if you were in such a hurry,” Jaskier points out as he crawls out of his bedroll and starts to roll it up. He almost misses the way Geralt stiffens. Almost. 

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, and Jaskier fruitlessly grasps for some way to backtrack. Much to his relief, the moment comes and goes without any real damage done. “And listen to you complain about being tired the whole time? I’m not in _that_ much of a hurry.”

The words are caustic, but there’s the tiniest uptick at the corner of Geralt’s mouth, and Jaskier recognizes it for the olive branch it’s probably intended to be. He scoffs more out of habit than any real offense, and when Geralt goes, he follows. If something still feels unsettled in him, Jaskier ignores it. Surely, the feeling will pass. 

*****

Jaskier is beautiful. The sentiment sneaks up so quietly on Geralt that it startles him. But even once he's focused enough to think critically on the matter, it still holds. 

Not physically, though Geralt can acknowledge that the bard is attractive. But that isn't what takes up residence in Geralt's mind and puts an anchor down. The thing is, Jaskier is… a lot sometimes. He's loud and talkative and overwhelming, but he's also kinder than anyone deserves, certainly more than Geralt does. He’s clever and resourceful and obstinately unafraid, unlike any human Geralt can remember encountering. 

_I want to know you._

Outside of Kaer Morhen, no one has ever really tried to know him in more than a cursory manner. It’s as frightening as it is novel. Jaskier often leaves him feeling hopelessly unmoored and yet… it would be so easy, as much as anything is _ever_ easy, to find refuge in their unconventional companionship. Maybe even to fall in love. If only he could trust that the fondness beginning to bloom was his and not just a product of their bond. 

Of their own accord, Geralt’s eyes track off to the side where Jaskier is walking next to Roach. Funny, how the bard can be right there in arm’s reach and still haunt Geralt like this. He’s teasing out the lyrics of a song to what sounds more like a lullaby than a tavern song. It comes together in fits and starts, but Geralt catches the gist of it. Jaskier spins together some tale of true love and happy endings, impossibly removed from any reality Geralt has ever known. Something about it makes him ache. 

“It isn’t real,” Geralt points out in the face of his own discomfort. 

Jaskier’s fingers pause against the strings of his lute, and when he glances up at Geralt, it’s with open curiosity. “What isn’t?”

“Soulmates. It’s… it exists, but it isn’t love.” Geralt focuses on the road ahead, unsure he really wants to see Jaskier’s expression. 

If the bard is hurt, he hides it quite thoroughly. “Alright. What is it, then?”

The question comes so calmly that Geralt can’t help feeling he’s being led into a trap. Maybe he is. If there’s anything Jaskier is especially good at, it’s talking circles around everyone else. Geralt answers anyway. “It’s destiny’s idea of a practical joke.” 

“You’re such a cynic,” Jaskier complains, but it’s warm, practically affectionate, punctuated by an absentminded pat against Geralt’s knee. “It’s not _either_ of those things.”

For the first time since they met, Geralt is confronted with the truth that Jaskier is maybe not the idealist he’d assumed the bard to be. Against his better judgment, he finds himself asking. “Well?”

“It’s _potential_ , Geralt. Simple as that.” There’s so much hope and confidence in Jaskier’s expression, Geralt almost misses the heartache. Almost. “It’s just the promise of someone you could be happy with if you gave it a chance.”

Immediately, Geralt’s mind circles back to the night before, the push and pull of grief and attachment. Feeling cornered, he retorts, “And I suppose it had nothing to do with last night?”

“Well, let me ask you something. I have a theory. What was it like for you? Did it hurt? What were you thinking about?” Jaskier rattles questions off before Geralt can begin to cobble together answers. 

Granted, this is not a conversation Geralt is interested in having in the first place, so he heads it off with as much finality as he can muster. “That’s a number of somethings. What’s your theory?”

“Yeah, nevermind. I guess it maybe didn’t do to you what it did to me…” There’s a question under what Jaskier is actually saying, but Geralt can’t bring himself to offer up that kind of vulnerability and eventually the bard moves on. “But for me, it wasn’t anything new. It was overwhelming, sure, but nothing I hadn’t considered.” 

Jaskier pauses, to give Geralt a chance to say something, or maybe just to take a breath. When the witcher doesn’t volunteer anything, he gestures vaguely with his lute still in hand. “I think it just, you know, magnifies what’s already there.” 

“So, if there was nothing for it to build on, it wouldn’t work…” Geralt fills in, because it’s not hard to sort the connection Jaskier is making. “Do you mean to tell me we could have avoided this if I’d left you in Posada?”

“I… don’t know. If anyone has tried it, no one published how it worked out.” Ever the showman, Jaskier speaks smoothly, but at the corner of Geralt’s vision, he looks like he’s been struck. “At least nothing in the library at Oxenfurt.”

It’s not the first time Geralt has done something he is objectively aware he should apologize to Jaskier for. It is, however, the first time he’s felt genuinely contrite. But even now, the words won’t come, and there’s no point anyway. It’s not as if he can free Jaskier from this any more than he can free himself. He does, at least, make an effort to steer their conversation to what he hopes is less personal ground. “So, you think it, what? Throws people together and they’re socialized to do the rest?”

“I think it’s like, um… Well, like puzzles pieces, right? If you’ve got two that are cut to fit each other, that potential is always there, even if you throw them to the opposite ends of a room. They always have the capacity to fit, but unless you give them the opportunity to do so, they might never get there.” Jaskier is still walking, but his eyes are trained on Geralt. The witcher must be schowling given the way Jaskier rushes to finish. “So, the bond is just the opportunity.” 

Theory or not, it’s disconcertingly plausible. As much as it would require Geralt to reframe his understanding of the last few weeks, he rather wishes it wasn’t. It would mean the grief the night before was real if quite exaggerated. More dangerously, it would mean that the growing urge to be near Jaskier is real, and Geralt isn’t certain he can afford for that to be true. 

“Hmm.”

“Oh, _there’s_ the witcher I know,” Jaskier teases, though his smile is brittle. “All this conversation, I was beginning to think you’d been replaced by a doppler.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier doesn’t know if anything he said makes a difference, because afterwards Geralt is about as talkative as he ever is, which is… not at all. Truth be told, Jaskier doesn’t even know what he thinks of his own theory when it comes down to it. It might be true. He hopes it is, because it’s kinder to think they have some agency in the way their lives go. But, it could also be a futile attempt to take what’s preordained and convince himself that falling in love with Geralt and everything he’s made of his life is all his own idea. 

Maybe Geralt has taken some shred of this to heart. Maybe he’ll even be swayed with enough time and patience. There’s no knowing with Geralt. What Jaskier does know, is that no matter how real his own feelings are, Geralt isn’t ready to hear it right now, maybe not ever. 

He cannot make the witcher love him, and wouldn’t want to even if he could. But if he can’t be a partner, he could be a friend, couldn’t he? For all of Geralt’s more difficult qualities, he’s worth building something with, no matter what that something looks like. 

So, Jaskier shakes off the lingering sense of loss and tries again. He follows Geralt and writes his songs, coaxing people to change in baby steps. They share a bed as often as not, partly because it’s less expensive, but mostly because it’s less taxing than trying to explain their situation to one presumptuous innkeeper or another, and every time, Jaskier turns his back to Geralt when he can no longer squash the impulse to reach out, to touch, to hold. Even though it burns, a smoldering ember somewhere beneath his breastbone, Jaskier never once mentions what ties them together. 

He means to stick to that, and for three months, he does. Geralt looks at him sometimes, intense and inscrutable, but he never says a word and so Jaskier pretends not to notice. It’s not ideal, but Jaskier makes it work, and in the end, it’s not him who upends his efforts. 

The village where it happens is wholly unremarkable, no more than a small, haphazard collection of buildings with a road cutting through the middle. It’s exactly the sort of place where the allure of performing is far outweighed by the adventure of accompanying Geralt, and any other day that’s exactly where Jaskier would go. Only the contract isn’t any more interesting than the town, and the rain is coming down in buckets, so when Geralt tells Jaskier to wait, for once in the whole time they’ve known each other, he does. 

The thing is, the village doesn’t get any more interesting just because he’s voluntarily stayed behind. He sings a few songs to the mostly empty tavern, more so they’ll properly appreciate that Geralt is slogging through the rain to take care of their arachas problem than anything else. The only thing he has to show for it is the sense of urgency with which the innkeeper complies when he calls for a bath for the witcher, but that’s… something, so Jaskier obstinately decides it’s a win. 

He runs out of things to tarry with downstairs, and so he’s in their room when Geralt returns. ‘Returns’ is probably too gentle of a word, Jaskier decides, for the way the door swings open to reveal Geralt, sodden and scowling. The witcher’s expression softens ever so slightly when he spots Jaskier, and really how is that so terribly endearing?

“I thought you might prefer bathwater to rainwater.” Jaskier smiles tentatively, gesturing at the tub that he hopes is still warm. Not that Geralt is looking at him anymore anyway.

“Hmm.” The sound does nothing to hide the way Geralt’s expression pinches when he tries to unfasten part of his armor. 

“Yes, thank you Jaskier. I would-” Jaskier starts, but when he sees Geralt is up off the bed and at the witcher’s side almost immediately. “Are you hurt?” 

Geralt doesn’t deign to respond, but also doesn’t pull away when Jaskier covers the witcher’s hand with his own, easing it away from the armor that’s hanging suspiciously askew. Jaskier doesn’t get much opportunity to celebrate his victory before realizing why, exactly, Geralt isn’t putting up much of a fight. The fastening at Geralt’s right shoulder must have broken at some point, and beneath it a long gash cuts right through his shirt across his shoulder blade. The edges are ragged and, not for the first time, Jaskier wonders if this is why Geralt only ever wears black. 

“That looks… painful,” Jaskier murmurs, setting the armor aside. The fastening looks fixable, but Jaskier doesn’t know the first thing about armor to try to do it. “It’s fine.” Geralt gives away his own lie, silently clenching his jaw as he discards the ruined shirt. 

“I’m starting to think you have a _very_ loose grasp of what ‘fine’ means.” Jaskier shakes his head and fetches the kit he’s taken to keeping for just this situation. Geralt gets hurt often enough that the thought of stitching his soulmate back together doesn’t make Jaskier squeamish anymore. It only makes him ache in sympathy that Geralt must be hurting. 

They’ve done this enough that Geralt doesn’t even argue. Not when Jaskier sits him down in the room’s sad little single wooden chair by the fireplace. Not when he dips a clean cloth in the still warm bathwater to wash away the dirt and most of the blood. Not even as Jaskier creates a painstakingly neat line of stitches along Geralt’s shoulder, mending the wound as best he can. 

“Are you done?” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier knows it’s meant to be a complaint of sorts, but the witcher just sounds exhausted. Jaskier wants nothing more than to drag Geralt to bed and curl up in the sheets together. Alas, that sort of thing just isn’t to be. 

“Yes, fine.” Jaskier waves Geralt off instead, gesturing towards the tub. “Go on before the water gets cold.” 

Geralt doesn’t point out that he’s capable of warming it up again, but the look he gives Jaskier says as much. It’s all Jaskier gets before Geralt turns his attention to the bath instead. 

And here’s the thing. Jaskier means to leave it at that. There’s no reason to interrupt the man’s bath, after all. So, Jaskier busies himself with other things, and resolutely does not look at the unfairly pretty naked witcher in the tub behind him. 

But in the quiet of the room, even Jaskier can hear the whimper stifled by Geralt’s teeth against his lip. It’s worry that makes Jaskier look to find Geralt with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to work out the mess his hair has become. 

“Do you need help?” Jaskier blurts out before his mind quite catches up with his mouth. He can feel his cheeks heat with embarrassment, but he gathers his wits and tries again. “With your hair, I mean. That can’t be comfortable for your shoulder. Can I… Do you want me to do it?”

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Geralt looks at him. It stretches out long enough that Jaskier is beginning to consider apologizing for even asking. But before he can, Geralt abruptly sags a little where he’s sitting,. “Fine.”

And that’s how Jaskier ends up dragging the sad little chair across the floor to settle behind the tub, a bottle of the concoction he cleans his own hair with in one hand and a comb in the other. It might be progress that Geralt doesn’t seem to mind the proximity, but Jaskier suspects it’s just exhaustion. 

With painstaking care, Jaskier works the dirt and tangles from Geralt’s hair. Not a word passes between them as he does it. The only sound Geralt makes is a soft hum that Jaskier would swear was contented as the bard scritches at his scalp. Jaskier catalogues that away with all Geralt’s other vague forms of communication and wonders what he could do to draw it out again. He doesn’t dare touch Geralt overly much, but in these rare instances where he does, Jaskier would prefer it was at least a pleasant experience. 

Geralt may not love Jaskier exactly, but the witcher clearly trusts him, and maybe there’s more weight to that. Jaskier combs his fingers through Geralt’s surprisingly soft hair and Geralt doesn’t offer up a word of complaint. Jaskier ventures as far as gently rubbing his thumbs against Geralt’s temples and the witcher tilts his head back without even a second’s hesitation. His sharp golden eyes are shut, dark lashes fanned out against the pale skin beneath them, and Geralt gives no indication he’s even noticed that he’s bared his throat and left himself defenseless. Not that Geralt is ever, even for a second, truly defenseless. But that’s hardly the point. 

If Jaskier were a better man, he’d leave now that he’s finished, but Jaskier has never really been good in that sense. Instead, he indulgently combs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, nails scratching pleasantly against the witcher’s scalp. His hands ache a little after a while, but it’s not that that puts an end to things. It’s just that Geralt looks to have fallen asleep and that’s going to be a miserable way to wake up. 

Jaskier gently shakes Geralt’s shoulder until he cracks an eye open. “Hey. C’mon don’t sleep here.” 

“It’s fine,” Geralt mumbles, closing his eye again. 

“It’s fine _now_ , but it’s going to be frigid later.” Jaskier gets up even though he really doesn’t want to. “Look, I’m going to bed. Don’t whine about it when you’re miserable later.” 

That gets Geralt to look at him with a pointedly raised eyebrow. With a huff, Geralt sits up properly, and Jaskier takes that as the cue to excuse himself, but before he can do more than turn around, Geralt’s hand is around his wrist. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Geralt rasps, his voice thick and gravelly with fatigue. 

“I didn’t,” Jaskier agrees. He smiles and ignores the way his heart twists in his chest,. “But I wanted to.” 

Before he can say anything he’ll regret, Jaskier excuses himself to dress for bed. He crawls in with his face to the wall, because he doesn’t trust his expression any more than he trusts his hands right now. By the time Geralt slides into bed behind him, the moment has passed and everything fits back into its normal place. 

Until it doesn’t. 

“It’s not true.” Geralt’s voice is barely even a whisper, a warm puff of air against the back of Jaskier’s neck in the shape of a handful of words. Geralt never faces this direction, which makes the whole situation weird even before there are words involved. 

Jaskier backtracks to the last thing they talked about, thinking it perhaps an especially belated response, but it doesn’t match up. When Geralt doesn’t clarify, Jaskier whispers back. “What isn’t true?”

Only Geralt’s breathing gives away that he’s still awake. He’s quiet as if he’d never said anything at all, still as a statue until Jaskier gives up on waiting. When Jaskier tries to roll over to figure out what the problem is, Geralt’s palm presses against the bard’s shoulder, keeping him turned away. “That witchers have no emotions.”

Geralt says it like he’s confessing something shameful, and, not for the first time, Jaskier really wants to hug him. Only, they’ve made progress and he doesn’t want to jeopardize that. 

“I know that. Of course I know that.” Geralt’s hand is still resting loosely against his shoulder, so Jaskier reaches to pat it in what he hopes is a reassuring sort of way. “But why are you telling me?” 

There in the dark, waiting for an answer, Jaskier realizes this is the first time Geralt has ever volunteered anything about himself. Anything personal anyway. Jaskier is grateful enough for that one step that he’s ready to give up and go to sleep long before Geralt speaks up again. “It’s… not like you. It’s complicated.” 

“Excuse me? Are you suggesting my feelings are _simple_?” Jaskier teases, smiling to himself at the amused huff it earns him. Somewhere along the way his fingers have threaded between Geralt’s at his shoulder, and as awkward as the angle is, he’ll be damned if he’s giving it up. 

“I don’t- I guess it’s a bit like trying to listen to a conversation when you’re underwater. You know someone’s talking, but you have no idea what they’re saying.” Every word sounds like it’s a battle, but Geralt doesn’t retreat. 

“I think that might be the most metaphorical thing I’ve ever heard you say.” 

It takes Jaskier what feels like an embarrassingly long time to realize what Geralt is probably talking about. He’d been afraid back in the woods that Geralt was just immune to the soul mark’s effects, but that hadn’t been it at all. That it took months for Geralt to explain himself is somehow less surprising than the fact that he did so at all. 

“You know I don’t blame you for what happened, right?” Jaskier tries to turn over again, and this time Geralt doesn’t stop him. It puts them nearly nose to nose, and in the moonlight Jaskier can just make out the eerie gold of Geralt’s eyes to know they’re very, very much focused on him. 

“I was careless,” Geralt insists, like he’s waiting for Jaskier to catch up and realize it was his fault after all. 

“Oh please. You knew as much as I did.” Tentatively, Jaskier reaches out, taking Geralt’s hand in the space where it rests between his chest and the witcher’s. Geralt’s gaze briefly drifts to it and then back to Jaskier’s face without a word. “Maybe even less.”

“Right. You were reading up on it,” Geralt says and Jaskier cringes inwardly. That would, of course, be the time Geralt decides to remember something about him. “What for?”

“Oh that’s a long story,” Jaskier hedges. There’s a time and a place for that story, but it isn’t here. 

“We’re clearly very short on time.” Jaskier doesn’t even have to see the smirk that accompanies Geralt’s dry humor to know it’s there. 

“Yes. Very funny.” Somewhere along the way Jaskier realizes that Geralt is sweeping his thumb idly across the bard’s knuckles. From anyone else, it would be a blatantly affectionate gesture, and Jaskier doesn’t entirely know what it means from Geralt, but it’s welcome all the same. “Some of us plan to sleep tonight, though. Ask me tomorrow.” 

He thinks, for a second, that Geralt is going to press, but there’s only a soft, acknowledging hum. Geralt closes his eyes, looking entirely at ease from what little Jaskier can see in the dark. “Tomorrow.”

*****

It’s not as if Geralt has never shared a bed before. It’s not even as if he’s never shared a bed with Jaskier before. Neither of these things assuage the feeling that the world rearranged itself while Geralt was sleeping. 

His shoulder still aches, but with none of the immediacy of last night’s open wound. It does very little to distract Geralt from his arm draped over Jaskier’s side or Jaskier’s face tucked under his chin. It does even less to distract from how lovely it feels just to be close. 

While last night had been a moment of weakness, his objections are on shakier ground this morning. If Jaskier is right, the way Geralt wants to curl in closer is all his own, even if the connection between them makes it louder. Despite all his protests that he didn’t want a soulmate, Geralt indulges the instinct to close his eyes and listen to Jaskier’s heartbeat, his fingers dragging idly through the bard’s hair. He could be happy like this, he thinks, and for a moment he is. 

“Morning,” Jaskier mumbles against the hollow of Geralt’s throat, nothing here is out of the ordinary. He wriggles closer like the only place he’s ever belonged is here in Geralt’s arms, and Geralt lets himself briefly entertain the notion that it’s true, that maybe those ridiculous happy endings Jaskier is so fond of writing into his songs aren’t entirely far fetched after all. 

Except…

Except there are no good answers. Not really. There’s no certainty that it’s even real. It could just as easily be destiny pulling his strings. The thought sours in the pit of his stomach, and by the time Jaskier pulls back enough to meet his eye, any comfort Geralt had found here is long since gone. 

“That’s not a good face.” Jaskier punctuates the comment with delicate fingers reaching to cradle Geralt’s jaw. “Are you okay? How’s your shoulder?”

As is often the case where Jaskier is concerned, it’s too many words in quick succession. At a loss for how to explain, Geralt pushes away enough to sit upright. 

“This was a mistake,” Geralt blurts out before he’s even decided if that’s true. He doesn’t know. Not really. But there’s no taking it back now that Jaskier is looking at him, wide eyed with something like horror. 

“A mistake? Seriously? Actually, don’t… don’t answer that,” Jaskier slips out of the bed like the linens have burned him. “Because if that’s really what you’ve convinced yourself of after last night, I might smother you with a pillow, and that would be very unfortunate for us both.”

Geralt recognizes Jaskier’s humor as a last ditch effort to rescue whatever this is they’ve landed on. It’s a lifeline, and Geralt wishes more than anything that he could take it. Instead, he shakes his head, trying very hard not to memorize the agonized way Jaskier looks up towards the ceiling in a fashion Geralt has seen humans do sometimes when they’re trying to not cry. 

“You could think you love me and I could think I love you, but the possibility that maybe it’s some cosmic joke convincing us that we should is always going to hang over our heads.” Geralt tries to be gentle, but even before he’s finished, he knows it’s not enough. 

“And if you discount everything over that, you’ll never know whether maybe it wasn’t.” Jaskier is usually an open book, but Geralt can’t read his expression this time. “But have it your way.” 

“Jaskier-” Geralt only realizes then that he has no idea what he can even say. Not that Jaskier gives him the opportunity to sort it out. The bard hastily dresses and all but flees the room, leaving Geralt staring at the closed door. 

As prone to theatrics as Jaskier is, Geralt mostly expects him to come back, but the seconds tick by and the door stays firmly shut. When it becomes painfully clear that Jaskier isn’t going to return, Geralt flops unceremoniously back against the bedding. The blankets still smell like Jaskier, familiar and warm and as near to home as Geralt can hope for in the life he leads. His heart lurches at the thought and he roughly scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier puts pretty much the entire town between himself and Geralt before he stops. In all fairness, a ten minute walk from the inn to the end of the road hardly qualifies as a town at all, but Jaskier can’t see the inn anymore, and that’s really most of the point. His thoughts are a hopeless jumble. The squelch of mud underfoot and the steady drizzle that refuses to let up don’t help. All the same, Jaskier parks himself beneath the overhang of a building that blocks out some of the rain and tries to tease the situation apart.

Geralt feels… something. That much is obvious, and in literally any other circumstances, Jaskier would be celebrating that as progress. Right now, it’s just heartbreaking because they’re so, so close. They could be happy. But the bond Jaskier thinks was always meant to be reassuring looks to be a lodestone for every harbored doubt as far as Geralt is concerned. 

There are a great many things Jaskier would be pleased to be the first to experience, but this brand of rejection isn’t one of them. The closer they get, the better they know each other, the more Geralt’s refusal to entertain the notion of the two of them stings. He’s felt unwanted before, but it’s monumentally worse when it’s someone who he was made to be with. 

“Jaskier, isn’t it?” A woman’s voice startles him from his thoughts, and the way he nearly jumps right out of his skin must be obvious given the giggle that follows her greeting. 

“Yeah. I-” Ever the showman, Jaskier smiles in spite of himself. He remembers her from the tavern the night before, though the chestnut hair that fell in such pretty waves the night before sag in a sopping wet mess about her shoulders now. Her eyes are the same, though, bright green and every bit as pleasant as the smile she bestows on him. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t catch your name.” 

“Lilith. Did you… maybe want to come inside?” She slides boldly into Jaskier’s space to open the door beside him. “Or is there some particular reason you’re standing on my doorstep out in this mess?”

“Just thinking.” It sounds ridiculous even to his own ears, and he can’t really fault Lilith for biting her lip on a smile. 

“Right. I do all my best thinking in the rain.” Lilith gestures to Jaskier in an unmistakable invitation and after a moment’s hesitation he follows her inside. He’s earned a distraction, hasn’t he? No one could fault him for choosing to keep the company of someone who at least seems to want it. 

But in the end, it’s not her opinion that unravels things at all. If she notices his mark, Lilth never says. It isn’t even that it feels like some sort of betrayal. It’s just that her hands aren’t enough to chase away the echoes of what he almost had, and her lips aren’t the ones he wants. 

There’s no refuge here, and the relief he finds is fleeting. Jaskier stays until the rain has faded to nothing, sated, pleasantly sore, and lonelier than ever. 

*****

At first, he’s glad for the distance. Better that they both walk away from this until they can be reasonable. Surely, if he gives it space, he’ll be more sure of his choices. 

Geralt gives it space and only questions himself more. It could be the draw between them is entirely manufactured, but what if it isn’t? What if he’s throwing this away for nothing? 

Morning passes and Jaskier doesn’t return. Geralt leaves to replenish their supplies, and comes back to a room just as empty as he left it. It’s early evening before he gives up and decides he better go look for his soulmate. 

He finds Jaskier sitting at a table that’s uncharacteristically isolated, disheveled in a way that leaves little question as to the source. Any other time, Geralt would have assumed it was a pleasant state of being, but Jaskier looks every bit as miserable now as he had when he left. It’s not as if Jaskier belongs to him any more than he belongs to the bard, so the fact that the lingering evidence of someone else rankles is ridiculous. 

From the foot of the stairs, Geralt watches Jaskier clutch at the tankard in his hands, staring at its contents. He doesn’t know if it’s his own feelings or destiny’s puppet strings urging him closer, but he does know that there’s no escaping each other, and finding some way to fix this is the only way either of them will have any peace. That the ghost of Jaskier’s hand in his still lingers is entirely immaterial. 

There are no good approaches, not really, so after waffling for a moment, Geralt crosses the space between them and takes a seat across from Jaskier. There’s a sour sort of unhappiness under the scent of whoever Jaskier was with, and for just a second, Geralt wants nothing more than to reach out, to do something, _anything_ , to wipe it away. He’s got no right though, so he clasps his hands on the tabletop instead.

“Oh, Geralt! I was just, ah, l-leaving,” Jaskier’s words practically trip over each other in their hurry to come out, accompanied by the bard pushing himself to stand up. 

It’s more instinct than conscious thought that makes Geralt take Jaskier’s hand before the bard can get too far. “Jaskier… Stay.”

All at once, Jaskier’s expression shifts, storm clouds crowding in. “Oh no. No, you’ve made it _very_ clear I’m not yours. You don’t get to order me around.”

And well… Jaskier isn’t wrong, at least not about all of it. Geralt lets go of Jaskier, though he’s horrified to find he doesn’t really want to. “It’s not an order. I-”

“You what?” Jaskier presses, but at least he hasn’t left, so maybe there’s some hope for them yet. 

“I’m asking, Jaskier. Sit down.” Belatedly, Geralt realizes that it doesn’t sound like much of a request. Venturing a look at Jaskier’s face, he adds, “Please.”

“I didn’t know you even knew that word.” Jaskier is all sharp edges and hurt, but he does sit down after a short pause. “Well?”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he starts, even though he’s relatively certain it’s not what he actually wanted to say. 

Jaskier sighs and shakes his head. “You were thinking it either way. At least saying it out loud, I know what I’m dealing with.”

This is the part where he makes amends, Geralt thinks, but he doesn’t know how. He won’t lie and there’s no truth he can offer that will make what he can give and what Jaskier wants the same. 

“It isn’t you,” he says instead, because the whole truth is too much and he can’t get the words out. 

“I get it, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, something like resignation settling across his features, and that’s the worst part of it. Geralt knows that he does. Jaskier understands him even when he doesn’t understand himself. 

Geralt has to rein in the urge to reach across the table where Jaskier is fiddling with his empty mug. He’s always been more of a man of action, but he presses his palms to his own thighs instead, forcing himself to say _something_. “I can’t be fair to you.” 

“Alright, you actually have lost me this time,” Jaskier replies, not unkindly. He cocks his head to the side a little, listening intently. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that it doesn’t matter how I think I feel.” He wishes it was as simple as that. As endlessly aggravating as Jaskier can be, he’s also terribly easy to love. “I can’t prove that it’s real.”

“Ah.” There’s a wounded look on Jaskier’s face that Geralt doesn’t quite understand. “The only unfair thing is that you won’t make up your mind. Maybe someday this will outweigh the doubt. I’m obviously not _going_ anywhere.”

“Maybe,” Geralt concedes, and much to his surprise he finds himself wishing it were true. 

“But if it’s not…” Jaskier trails off, looking away entirely. “Then, don’t try to make it be. It’s only cruel to us both.” 

‘Maybe’ is a dangerous notion, offering hope where there was none. Geralt hopes there’s some truth to it anyway. In the meantime, Jaskier flashes him a smile, small but genuine, and maybe it’s just the day they’ve had, but it might be the best thing Geralt has ever seen. 

This isn’t love, some part of him insists. Even if this morning he felt lost. Even if he’s hopelessly relieved that Jaskier is here, peering at him from across the table. It’s more a token resistance than anything else at the moment. Geralt has never been terribly interested in introspection, his own or others’, but he finds himself very much wanting to know what the bard is thinking. “Jaskier?”

“You know, that’s not even my name. Well, not my given one anyway. Well, I guess that’s not accurate either because I gave it to myself.” Jaskier seems to notice then that he’s babbling and abruptly closes his mouth. 

What kind of companion is he that they’re this far in and he doesn’t even know Jaskier’s name? Geralt’s knee jerk response is to point out that it’s not as if Jaskier ever mentioned it, but he feels just contrite enough after this morning to entertain the notion that maybe this was a little bit on him too. “What is it, then?” 

“Julian…” Jaskier tenses, the stress of some internal debate flitting across his features, but eventually he speaks up again. “Julian Alfred Pankratz Viscount de Lettenhove.” 

“Well, that’s a… lot,” Geralt says regarding the really very unnecessary number of words Jaskier just offered up before the content quite registers. 

“Yeah, not a very good stage name, so here we are,” Jaskier says briskly, clapping his hands together like he means to firmly close the lid on this particular topic.

It almost works too, except that Geralt eventually parses what Jaskier had said in the first place. “Wait. Viscount?” 

“Yes.” It’s an answer, but Jaskier’s tone hikes up at the end like it’s really more a question. 

“I guess that explains Oxenfurt,” Geralt murmurs more to himself than to Jaskier, but it does remind him of their not quite conversation the night before. He wants to talk now as much as he ever does, which is not at all. This seems important though, if only because Jaskier _didn’t_ talk about it, so against his better judgment, he asks, “What was it you were researching?”

He expects theatrics. He expects Jaskier to bestow some grand, hyperbolic, and probably half made up story on him. What Geralt doesn’t expect is the way Jaskier flinches like he’s been struck. “It’s… not important.”

“If it weren’t important, you would have said so last night,” Geralt points out, his mouth turning down, conveying something just this side of irritation. 

“You have to understand, I didn’t know you and there were _reasons_. It’s not as if I didn’t think about it first. If I’d known it was you at the other end, I’d have probably reconsidered. Well, no, actually-” Jaskier is babbling the way he does when he’s nervous, and Geralt is somehow both pleased and annoyed that this is something he knows. 

“Jaskier,” he says sharply, sharp enough that Jaskier goes very still and silent across the table. Geralt had been trying to get Jaskier to focus, not to… well, whatever this is. Sighing, Geralt makes a conscious effort to speak more gently. “Just tell me.” 

“I wanted to know if it could be undone.” Jaskier is so quiet that Geralt doesn’t think he’d have heard without his enhanced senses. “My… my soulmark. I was trying to get rid of it.”

Geralt frowns, trying to make the new piece of information make sense. He knows exactly the type of hopeless romantic Jaskier is, how deeply he believes in all this nonsense. And Jaskier wasn’t the one trying to run away when they found each other. He turns it every which way, but this particular revelation doesn’t slot in anywhere amidst the things he knows to be true about Jaskier. “...Why?”

“It wasn’t about you. It wasn’t about love at all.” Jaskier isn’t small or waifish, but he almost looks like he is as he hunches in on himself. With a heavy sigh, he holds out the wrist Geralt’s barely even glanced at in all this time. The words scrawled there had been funny at the time, but now it feels like some kind of indictment of something, maybe of him. “See, ah… It turns out there are downsides to your profession being written all over you when it’s the wrong profession. My parents knew I was going to disappoint even before I did.”

Geralt doesn’t even realize he’s taken Jaskier’s wrist in his hand until his thumb is sliding over the vibrant lettering. “Would erasing it have fixed that?”

Jaskier huffs out a humorless laugh. His gaze follows the slow back and forth of Geralt’s thumb against his wrist, but he doesn’t pull away. “Of course not. It changed everything long before I could even read. There was never any fixing it.”

“Then, what was the point?” 

“Because I’m _happy_ doing this. I love it, even,” Jaskier explains, gesturing at the tavern around them. “I guess you might say I was trying to prove it was real. I just wanted to know it was a choice I truly made for myself because…”

Jaskier wilts somewhat where he sits. He scrubs his free hand over his face, but he still doesn’t pull free of Geralt’s grip on him. “I just needed to know that it was the path I’d have gone down without the mark to tell me so. That it was what I actually wanted and not just destiny choosing for me.”

“And? What did you learn?” Geralt asks, and it’s only then that he realizes maybe he wants it to be true. 

“Nothing useful, but I made my peace with it somewhere along the way. Geralt, I… I have to believe I chose to become what I am. And if I chose this life-” Jaskier wriggles free of Geralt’s grip only to take his hand. It ought to be awkward, but somehow there’s nothing strange at all about Jaskier’s fingers intertwined with his. “-Then feeling the way I do about you is a choice too.”

This isn’t love, Geralt has to remind himself. It isn’t love, but maybe it could be. 

*****

They carry on and it’s not… a relationship, not precisely, but it’s something. That’s entirely the problem. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with this purgatory of ‘almost’, where Geralt reaches for him only to jerk away again. It’s right there, in the way Geralt looks at him sometimes, but the bond meant to draw them together has become a chasm between them that Jaskier doesn’t know how to cross.

There’s no inn in town, but they’re curled up against the cold in a pile of straw in someone’s barn, and Jaskier can almost pretend they’ve found their way. Sometime in the night, Geralt’s arm wound its way around Jaskier’s waist, and they fit like they were made to be tangled up together. In the liminal space between slumber and waking up properly, Jaskier is just coherent enough to know he’d happily do this for the rest of his life. 

But reality cruelly snuffs out that hope before it can take root. They’ll do this forever, Jaskier realizes with some measure of horror, round and round until one of them is gone. It’s no way to live, and as he considers it, Jaskier has never been so certain of his feelings. There’s no denying the prison their bond has become, but it’s not his own freedom he’s after. 

It’s a terrible idea, but knowing that has never stopped Jaskier from doing anything in his entire life. He’d come up with nothing at the library, but someone out there must know how to erase their bond, and Jaskier knows just how to reach them. Reluctantly, he gives up the warmth of Geralt’s body against his, easing out of the man’s sleeping embrace. After all, he has a song to write. 

***

He hates every word of it. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the topic, even if no one else out there is writing songs about soulmates and framing it a tragedy. It’s just that it’s a heavy handed mess of boring rhymes and trite metaphors, punctuated by a lilting sort of tune. Really, it might be the worst thing he’s ever written. 

The people eat it up. Because of course they do. 

And really, isn’t that the important part? Because if people like it, the song will have a reach far beyond his own, and maybe, just maybe, the right person will hear it. It doesn’t make him feel any better about the way Geralt crinkles his nose the first time he hears it, but that’s okay. It’s not for him. Not… directly, anyway. 

Jaskier has never been particularly good at waiting, but it’s all he can do after that. It’s weeks, months, a year that go by, and Jaskier sings the song in every village they pass through. It doesn’t get him any answers. 

What it does get him, unexpectedly, is an offer to play somewhere other than the rundown taverns he frequents on their travels. Jaskier’s heart is in his throat when he recognizes the seal as Cintran, and he nearly drops the letter twice before he’s read to the end. 

“Look, you don’t even have to go _to_ the gala with me. I’m sure there’s work in Cintra as much as anywhere else,” Jaskier wheedles, expecting he’s going to have to bribe Geralt into heading that way. 

Much to Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt doesn’t protest. He only raises an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you at parties. Someone has to keep you out of trouble.” 

“Excuse you. I-” Jaskier stops, brows dipping thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay I don’t actually have much of an argument for that.” 

Geralt hums in reply, the one Jaskier is pretty sure translates into “That’s what I thought.” and he wants to voice a complaint, but the fact that Geralt is willingly going with feels too important. 

“Well, I hope you don’t think you’re going in _that_ ,” he says instead, mostly for the hilarious way Geralt’s expression sours. 

“I take it back.” Geralt’s tone is gruff, but Jaskier is pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the smile that flits across the witcher’s lips. 

He’s quick to return it, desperately tamping down the hope that maybe, just maybe, they’re reaching a turning point. “No, you don’t.”

“No.” Geralt shakes his head, his eyes flicking downward at his half empty mug. “I don’t.”


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier is beautiful. 

It’s not the first time Geralt has thought that it, but usually it’s in the context of some unexpectedly pleasant thing the bard has done rather than anything physical. There’s no denying it now, though. Instead of his usual loud colors Jaskier is bedecked in pale gold. 

Geralt can’t hear what Jaskier is saying from his seat beside Calanthe, but the man he’s talking to seems entertained. As if he can feel Geralt watching, Jaskier looks over from across the room. While everything else is muted, Jaskier’s eyes remain a vibrant blue, and the bard really must be rubbing off on him, because for the briefest second, Geralt entertains the notion he could drown in them. It’s not the eyes that do him in, though. It’s the smile that tugs at Jaskier’s mouth when he catches Geralt watching him. 

Jaskier is _breathtaking_. Geralt knows that, has always known that. Yet, it’s like seeing it for the first time. He has the strangest urge to get up and tell Jaskier so, but he does not get the chance before the gala descends into chaos. 

Just as Geralt is beginning to convince himself that maybe destiny isn’t a _total_ wash, it comes marching in to illustrate his worst fears. The Law of Surprise maybe isn’t quite as lacking in agency as soulmates, but it certainly knows how to make a disaster of a party. 

He doesn’t mean to get involved when it becomes apparent that the Law ties the princess Pavetta to a cursed knight. If Calanthe had done no more than shirk the binds of destiny, maybe he could have stayed out of it. But, instead she tries to engineer the knight’s demise, and Geralt cannot bring himself to stand aside. 

It all happens quite quickly after that, an argument, a battle, an outpouring of magic Geralt has never seen in his life. It seems as if one moment the ballroom is full of light and music, the next Pavetta has torn it all asunder. She’s a force to be reckoned with, driven by what Geralt would reluctantly acknowledge is probably love despite what ties them together. 

He’s so focused on her part in all this, that he’s taken entirely by surprise when the knight insists on repaying his help. If he’d had time to think, Geralt might have had the good sense to say something, _anything_ else. Anything but invoking the Law of Surprise. 

Even after he’s said it, Geralt assumes it’s going to be something innocuous. Something they do not know they possess usually turns out to be some trinket or livestock or something similarly unimportant, but luck has never actually done the thing Geralt hoped for, so he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when the Surprise is… not a trinket. 

“What have you done?” Calanthe asks furiously as Pavetta kneels on the floor beside the evidence of what Geralt’s invocation has netted him. 

He didn’t want a soulmate, and that’s admittedly gotten complicated, but he can at least make sense of it. He can maybe manage the concession necessary to allow himself to love Jaskier. But there is no version of events where Geralt has any desire to be tied to a _child_ , least of all a royal one. 

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters and turns on his heel, stalking through the debris towards the exit. 

“Geralt? Geralt!” Jaskier rushes to catch up with him, ruffled and a little worse for wear. “Don’t just leave me here. Where are you going?”

Geralt doesn’t really know what kind of look he gives Jaskier, but it must be stormy given the way Jaskier’s hands raise in surrender. “Okay. Nevermind. You probably want some space after all _that_. I’ll… see you, I guess.”

The wind whistles through the blown out windows, letting in a draft. Despite the cool air, Geralt feels like he can hardly breathe. Crowding out everything else is the need to escape, and so he does, putting the palace behind him without so much as a glance over his shoulder. 

*****

“That could have gone better,” Jaskier mumbles, watching Geralt walk away. For someone so opposed to the very idea of destiny, being beset by it again is surely upsetting. Jaskier wants to offer some kind of comfort, but he can’t help but think he’s an avatar of the very concept Geralt is so angry about. 

He cannot turn back the last hour, and he cannot help that he is one more choice Geralt didn’t really make. He can give Geralt space to lick his wounds in peace though, so despite every fiber of Jaskier’s being wanting to follow after his soulmate, the bard hangs back in the remains of what had started as a lovely party.

“Jaskier, isn’t it?” a voice behind him asks just as he’s getting used to the quiet again. Jaskier nearly jumps out of his skin before turning around to face the source of it. 

She’s lovely, whoever she is, her long, golden hair framing her face in loose ringlets. She’s not royalty, at least none that he recognizes, but she’s dressed as if she might be, swathed in deep red silk. “And… you are?”

“Morgaine.” She crooks a smile at Jaskier, a coy and fleeting thing. “I had been looking forward to your performance tonight. I can’t get that last song out of my head. Been hearing it everywhere, you know?”

Jaskier does, in fact, know the one she’s talking about. Oddly, for all his intent had been to get the word out, hearing he’s been successful sits like ice in his veins. “Oh. Yes, that one. People ask for it a lot.” 

“Of course they do. The idea of being unwanted and yet unable to escape is quite the tragedy and you know people. They love a disaster so long as they’re watching from the sidelines and not in it.” Morgaine smiles and offers Jaskier her elbow. It’s a polite, courtly gesture and with Geralt nowhere to be seen, there’s nothing to do but take it. Before Jaskier knows it, he’s walking with Morgaine down a hall far from the wreckage of the party. “That story rings so true, one might even assume it was… yours.” 

“Well, the songs are-, are _all_ mine in a manner of speaking.” Jaskier hears himself stumble over the words. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s waited so long for someone to catch on, and now all he can think to do is deflect. 

“You weren’t the first bard to hide a message in a song and you won’t be the last. Really, the brilliance of it is that you jammed it into something so obnoxiously catchy. But, you can relax. I’m not after your secrets, bard, or this conversation would be going quite differently.” Morgaine pauses beside a door to open it, revealing what looks to be a laboratory. “I’m trying to make you an offer.”

***

It all happens so quickly after that, that Jaskier doesn’t really remember how he ended up staring at a vial in the palm of her hand. It’s dark purple and viscous, sluggishly sliding along the glass when she tips it to the side. “And that’s it?” 

“Yes…” Morgaine purses her lips, as ruby red as her gown, and stares at the vial. “ _Probably_ yes. I haven’t precisely tested it, but in theory.” 

“And you’re just giving it to me?” Jaskier is far past assuming a favor like this is well intended, but he doesn’t dismiss it entirely. 

“No. I’m not just anything. The way I see it is this. You have an unorthodox problem that you’re so desperate for an answer, you took to singing about it, and I might be able to help, but obviously I’m not hurting for money, and you’ve got little else you can offer me.” In the flames flickering from the fireplace, Morgaine’s smile looks much more sinister than friendly. “How am I doing so far?”

She’s spot on, but Jaskier isn’t about to say so, so instead he gestures broadly. “And how do you figure in, then?” 

Morgaine paces, toying with the vial as she does. “Well, there are rules, you know, where magic is concerned, and Aretuza isn’t in the habit of sanctioning something so extreme as altering soul bonds. I can’t go around experimenting without drawing attention. As you can probably imagine, finding willing volunteers can be challenging. So, when I heard your song, I had to bring you to me.” 

“You brought me here.” The realization is a bitter one, but she doesn’t give him time to dwell on it. 

“And you’ve clearly made the most of it. They’ll be asking for you for ages to come after tonight.” Abruptly, Morgaine stops, offering the vial to Jaskier. “Your freedom and your career for one _tiny_ favor. What do you say?”

Jaskier closes his fingers around the vial, the glass strangely warm to the touch. “Is it dangerous?”

“If I knew that, I would have no need of your assistance. No discovery comes without risk.”

It makes sense, and deep down, he’s maybe always known this path would be risky. “Is it deadly?”

“Probably not. Well, perhaps to you,” Morgaine concedes. “I haven’t exactly been going around spiking people’s drinks with it to find out. Your soulmate is a witcher though, yes? He should be fine if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

For a long time, Jaskier just stares at the vial. Geralt could be free. They both could. Somehow with the promise of it looming on the horizon, when there’s nothing he wants more in the moment than to give Geralt some peace, the cost seems insignificant. “I’m in.”

*****

It’s probably fitting that, in the grand scheme of things that just as he’s beginning to think he’s free of it, destiny tightens the noose around his neck. A life thrust upon him whether he wanted it or not, a soulmate chosen with no consideration for the reality he lives in, and now, a child surprise. Whatever Jaskier thinks, nothing about this suggests anything like free will. 

Nothing, except Jaskier himself. He’s strange and irritating, but he’s also a multitude of things that Geralt can begrudgingly admit to himself that he admires. This doesn’t come easily to either of them, but Jaskier offers up his heart every day, fully expecting it to be rejected, and Geralt… maybe does appreciate that about him. Without their bond forcing them together, Geralt is having a harder and harder time running from the revelation that these things would all still be true, and that maybe in spite of himself, he’s fallen in love with the bard somewhere along the way. Destiny is terrible, but Jaskier is not, and that counts for something.

Jaskier. Geralt has meandered all the way back to the inn before it occurs to him that Jaskier is probably still at the palace. He’d been desperate to get away, but this is rather rude, even by his standards. Cursing under his breath, Geralt reluctantly turns back in search of his soulmate. 

He doesn’t have to go far. Even in the dark, he can make out the smile Jaskier graces him with when their paths cross, and Geralt hates the way it warms him. No, that’s not right though, is it? He hates that he doesn’t hate it at all, that there are these moments where he doesn’t care if it’s the bond or his foolish, runaway heart, where the only thing he wants to know is whether Jaskier’s lips would fit against his as well as the rest of them does. 

“Did you forget something?” Jaskier’s brows knit in obvious concern. 

They’re standing at the edge of something. It’s not the first time, and every other instance, Geralt has taken a step back. But Geralt realizes as he opens his mouth that he can’t do this forever. Allowing a shadow of a smile, he replies. “My bard.” 

“Why, Geralt. I think that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Jaskier is clearly teasing, but there’s a truth to the playful jab that twists and aches. 

For a while, they walk in silence back towards the inn, and Geralt is so lost in his thoughts that he nearly misses Jaskier’s question entirely. “Are you… okay?” 

“Be better when we get the fuck out of Cintra,” Geralt mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Whatever destiny might have decided, I’m not doing… that.” 

“Geralt. I love you. You know I love you, but you walked into that all by yourself. The whole mess tonight was on account of the Law of Surprise, and _that’s_ what you decided to go with?” It’s not the first time Jaskier has said he loves him. It’s not even the first time he’s said it so casually. But it’s the first time the sentiment has stuck with Geralt, taking up residence even as Jaskier continues to talk. “Destiny and free will aren’t mutually exclusive necessarily.”

Geralt snorts in spite of himself. “They are literal opposites.” 

“Sure, if you assume destiny is all puppet strings, but what if it’s not? It could be that destiny is just the universe’s, ah, affirmation of choices we were already going to make. I mean sure, maybe destiny gave you a kid, but it only worked with what you gave it.” 

“And the things that weren’t choices at all?” Geralt presses, because it all makes enough sense to leave Geralt feeling cornered. 

“What? Like you being a witcher? That’s not destiny. That’s just shit parenting.” Jaskier’s hand comes to rest against his arm somewhere along the way. It should be irritating, but mostly there’s a sort of comfort in the contact, and so Geralt doesn’t shake it off. 

He frowns to himself, watching the road ahead. “It was what it took for me to meet you.”

He catches the gentle upturn of Jaskier’s lips in an unmistakably fond smile. It’s there and gone, the bard’s tone more somber as he speaks. “Doesn’t mean some external force made her do it. If destiny called all the shots, we could never hold them accountable for anything. Sometimes, people are just terrible all on their own.”

For maybe the first time, it’s Geralt who moves. Standing there at the edge, he once again chooses not to retreat. Shaking Jaskier’s hand from his arm, he carefully takes it in his own. He doesn’t have the words for this, but Jaskier isn’t talking either, so maybe they don’t need them. 

***

The whole world seems to tilt on its axis. Despite the disaster the night has been, despite his renewed distaste for all that’s even vaguely related to destiny, he can’t seem to dredge up that feeling where Jaskier is concerned. This late, there’s only a blanket of stars overhead to light their way back to the inn, and there’s comfort in the quiet that winds its way around them, so perhaps that’s why it takes Geralt a little while to recognize the strangeness of it. It was the performance of Jaskier’s life and he hasn’t said a word about it. 

When the occasional furtive glance in Jaskier’s direction doesn’t get him talking, Geralt reluctantly asks, “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” As keen as his hearing is, he can just barely make out the sound of Jaskier nervously swallowing around the word, which offers more questions than answers, really. “No. Nothing’s wrong. Just an eventful night.”

Jaskier is generally the one to carry the conversation, so he waits, but nothing is forthcoming. Jaskier lapses right back into the contemplative silence that seems to have consumed him. It’s strange, for how often Geralt has wished that Jaskier would stop talking, that’s the last thing he wants at the moment. Making a face, Geralt tries again. “You were… good tonight.”

That pulls a surprised smile from the bard. “I didn’t know you were even listening.” 

“You make it very difficult not to.” The minute he’s said it, Geralt shakes his head, realizing it must sound like an insult he hadn’t at all intended. Jaskier’s breath catches in a way that suggests he came to the same conclusion, and Geralt curses under his breath. “That’s not what I meant. I mean it’s difficult not to _want_ to. You know how to play to your audience.”

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand in his, and all seems to be forgiven. “I take it back. _That_ might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The words hang heavy over Geralt’s head, lingering as they trade the night sky for the dimly lit inn. This late it’s nearly empty of people, and there’s certainly no one sober enough to pay them much mind as they head for the stairs. 

He’d never known it was possible to miss someone when they’re right there, but the second Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand to open the door to their room, he finds he’s tempted to pull it back. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, holding the door open for the witcher. 

Oh. 

“Were you planning to come inside or are you just gonna stand there all night?” Jaskier smiles, a fond, lopsided little thing despite the confused dip of his eyebrows.

_Oh._

Love is not the obligation of a soul bond or that awful sense of loss in the woods, like Jaskier’s absence is a gaping wound. It’s the steady thumping of Jaskier’s heartbeat under Geralt’s palm in the middle of the night. It’s dozens of songs written to shake the world into a kinder place for Geralt to move through. It’s the ghost of Jaskier’s hand in his still beckoning him back. 

And it’s that smile, devoid of all Jaskier’s usual showmanship and meant only for him. Their bond may have held them together, but it didn’t make Jaskier the kind of person he is. Maybe it’s never been their bond that made Jaskier matter. It’s all these multitude of little things Geralt wants to hang onto for the rest of his days. 

_This isn’t love_ , some doubtful part of him insists. Except… except that it is. 

“Geralt? Are you okay?” Jaskier’s voice is strained with newfound concern, and oh hell, he’s been standing in the doorway for entirely too long. 

He doesn’t mean to, but in his hurry to come inside, Geralt ends up squarely in Jaskier’s personal space. Geralt can’t help noticing the curious way Jaskier’s head tilts to the side at precisely the right angle for cradling in the palm of his hand. And as close as they are, he can’t help hearing the faint hitching of Jaskier’s breath when Geralt does just that. 

For the space of about thirty seconds, it’s perfect. Geralt draws a little closer, and when he hesitates to close the distance between them entirely, Jaskier does it for him. Of all the ways he’s thought of how kissing Jaskier might go, it’s never been quite like this. No one has ever kissed Geralt quite this softly, as if he’s something delicate or worth being careful with.

It’s shocking how easy it is to give into the urge to chase after Jaskier when he withdraws. And Jaskier lets him, arms winding around Geralt’s back. Maybe they were made for this, but Geralt can’t find itself in him to care anymore. 

“Well that’s… new.” Jaskier huffs out a laugh between kisses. “I’m sort of afraid to ask what’s the occasion.” 

“Jaskier.” And that is the beginning of the end. Geralt says the first thing that comes to mind, finding that he means it. “I lo-”

“Juuuuuust… Just hold that thought.” Jaskier abruptly interrupts, wriggling out of Geralt’s grip. 

“What?” 

“It’s been a long, weird day, you know? Nightcap? I could use a nightcap. What. A. Day.” Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heart thumping nervously in his chest, which seems odd for someone getting exactly what they’ve wanted. 

Geralt does reach out then, but Jaskier acts as if he hasn’t noticed. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, it’s just. I just… Don’t say something you might not mean,” Jaskier says all in a rush. “I don’t think my heart could take it.”

Before Geralt can argue, Jaskier is out the door in a manner that the witcher can’t describe as anything other than fleeing. 

*****

Fuck. 

Halfway down the staircase, Jaskier sinks down, sitting on the old, gnarled wood. It would just figure that now would be when Geralt finally makes a decision. 

And Jaskier could have this. No potions. No risk of his own demise. Their bond might always be a spectre waiting in the dark, but if Geralt has opted to move past his own doubts, couldn’t that be enough?

Pulling the vial from the pocket he’d secreted it away to, Jaskier watches the potion slosh lethargically in the glass. He knows better, of course. Whatever effort Geralt is making, that question has put down roots that aren’t so simple to yank out. Jaskier will never be certain that what Geralt offers him is entirely the truth. 

But that’s not what makes the decision for Jaskier, at least not in a straightforward way. Geralt might be willing to surrender, but Jaskier doesn’t want him to. Not really. Maybe the witcher will wake up tomorrow and not love him after all, or maybe it won’t make the slightest difference, but at least he’ll have the certainty of choice in the matter. It might be the last thing Jaskier ever gives Geralt, but he _can_ give it, and that makes Jaskier pull himself to his feet and traverse the rest of the stairs. 

He barely catches the innkeeper in time to secure a bottle of port before she heads to bed for the night. It means she glowers at him until he slides her a few extra coins for the inconvenience. It also means she doesn’t notice him linger at the bar, two clean cups and a corked bottle sat in front of him. Jaskier stays long enough to pour the contents of Morgaine’s vial into the bottle, hoping the overwhelming smell of wine and brandy are enough to hide it from Geralt, because there’s no backup plan if it doesn’t. 

Realizing Geralt will probably come looking if he stays downstairs much longer, Jaskier stashes away the empty vial again and gathers up the bottle and glasses to take back to their room. It’s awkward, but he manages to get the door without breaking anything. Before he’s even stepped inside before he tries to apologize. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says at the same time. They stare at each other in stunned silence until Jaskier finally remembers to close the door, and Geralt deigns to finish his thought. “That I’ve given you reason to think I don’t mean it. I do.” 

Jaskier sucks in a breath, marveling at how Geralt has picked just the right thing to say to rip his heart out of his chest and doesn’t even know it. As much to occupy himself as to see his plan to completion, Jaskier sets the glasses on a side table and uncorks the bottle once more. “I believe you. It’s just… there’s no telling if, when morning comes, _you’ll_ believe you.”

Geralt doesn’t reply at first, and Jaskier rushes through pouring their drinks, silently pressing one into the witcher’s hand. He smiles, even though it feels like everything is falling to pieces.

“I want it to be true. So just… just sleep on it, okay? And if that’s still how you feel tomorrow-” Jaskier clinks his glass against Geralt’s, buying himself precious seconds to ensure the witcher drinks it, because there’s no telling what might happen if he doesn’t. “If that’s still how you feel, and I _hope_ so, you can tell me again, alright?” 

“Tomorrow,” Geralt slowly agrees. He makes a face as he brings the glass to his lips, and for a second, Jaskier is certain he’s been caught. But all Geralt says is, “That’s strong.” 

“Precisely the point of a nightcap,” Jaskier quickly replies, not letting down his guard until Geralt brings the glass back to his lips. 

The witcher drinks and Jaskier follows suit and… nothing happens. He feels exactly the same as he had moments before, except now the heavy taste of port sticks to his tongue. Maybe, the hazard of an untested potion wasn’t so much disaster as it was inertia. Just to be certain, Jaskier reaches for the bottle to empty the rest into their classes. 

He never reaches it. Before he can touch the bottle, fire licks it’s way through every inch of his body until Jaskier’s knees hit the floor with a dull thud. He can’t think. He can’t breathe. He can only scrabble at his own chest, gasping for air that refuses to fill his lungs. 

It’s hot, too hot, like he’s burning up from the inside, and Jaskier wants very little more than to claw his way right out of his skin. The potion seems to burn away every conscious thought except for the terrible moment he’s in, and every sensation but the searing heat consuming him entirely.

“Jaskier? Jaskier!” There’s an arm around him, but that doesn’t keep the world from sliding out from under him. Before he can even gasp out that he’s heard, Jaskier slips into unconsciousness. 

[](https://imgur.com/NFng0yO)


	7. Chapter 7

All the time he’s known Jaskier, Geralt has never seen him so still. He may as well be a ragdoll in Geralt's arms. Frantically, Geralt searches for any sign of injury but finds none. "Come on, damn it. Wake up."

The headache comes on like an ambush, a violent, crushing sensation that makes it hard to breathe. The witcher's vision swims, the room going blurry and for a few awful moments he thinks they've been poisoned. He's never encountered any quite like this. 

But the pain ebbs bit by bit and eventually Jaskier's face pulls back into focus. Geralt can hear the bard's breathing, nothing strained about it. All the same, Jaskier is entirely still in his embrace. 

It's purely a matter of circumstance that Geralt puzzles out the truth when he does. It happens to be that his shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms. It happens to be that Jaskier’s hair is out of place in a way that Geralt can't help sweeping from his soulmate's closed eyes. It happens to be that, while his attention is mostly on Jaskier, the fading mark on his wrist draws Geralt's gaze. 

"What the..." Within moments, it's as if the script was never there at all. Gingerly, he lifts Jaskier's wrist to find it too is blank, and when he focuses, the steady undercurrent drawing them together is entirely absent. Finally, after all this time, they're free. 

It all runs together a bit after that. There’s a healer dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, who can only tell Geralt that there’s nothing to do for Jaskier but wait. There are hours spent keeping a lonely vigil just in case Jaskier wakes. There are quiet moments amidst the chaos where Geralt finds himself dragging his fingers along the delicate underside of his wrist which has left no evidence that they ever belonged to each other. 

And they did belong to each other, Geralt supposes, in some manner of speaking. It makes sense now, why Jaskier had silenced him so forcefully, and for a little while Geralt waits for the affection he'd grown sure of to dissipate.

Except it doesn’t. Geralt loves Jaskier the way he did the night before, and the day before that, and… Oh hell. Destiny might have created the opportunity, but it wasn’t what made the pieces fit. 

If Jaskier would just wake up, Geralt might even tell him so. 

****

This, Jaskier decides, is the hangover to end all hangovers. His head throbs even before he opens his eyes, and instinctively, he turns away from the source of the light. 

Right into… something. 

“Jask?”

‘Something’ is Geralt’s chest, as it turns out, and as miserable as Jaskier feels, he presses closer without even thinking about it. “Ugh.” 

“I’ll say,” Geralt grumbles. There are fingers dragging through Jaskier’s hair, and it’s such a surreal thing that it takes him a little while to recognize that they’re real and that they belong to the witcher. 

“How long have I been-” Jaskier says each word slowly, trying to string together a question, but Geralt cuts in before he can finish. 

“Two days,” Geralt replies, and Jaskier is pretty sure that if he isn’t imagining the fingers in his hair, he also isn’t imagining the particularly sharp edge to Geralt’s words. 

Two days is… not ideal, but he’s not dead, so Jaskier decides that’s good enough. Well, it’s good enough if it did what it was supposed to, but truth be told, even without the awful headache, he’s afraid to look at his arm to see. Swallowing thickly, he mumbles against the soft fabric of Geralt’s shirt. “Did it work?”

“Did it… Jaskier. You almost _died_.” Geralt’s fingers are still in Jaskier’s hair, and he can feel them twitch against the instinct to curl into a fist. “Who cares if it worked?”

“Please, Geralt.”

“For fuck’s sake, _yes_.” All at once, the comforting press of Geralt’s body against his is gone, leaving only empty sheets behind. There’s the telltale creak of floorboards as Geralt stalks the length and breadth of their room, and he sounds sort of far away. “Did you know what was going to happen?”

He could say no. It wouldn’t even be a lie really because he hadn’t known this was going to know how it was going to go. Jaskier knows Geralt wouldn’t see it that way though, so he listens to Geralt’s restless answer and offers a different kind of roundabout answer. “It was a calculated risk.”

“What were you thinking?” The creak of the floorboards stops. “Was it that important?”

Is this what freedom feels like? It’s _terrible_. Everything aches and the light is too bright, and the fury in Geralt’s voice leaves Jaskier careening towards that feeling of too, too much. When he manages to pry his eyes open, he looks up at the ceiling, ignoring the dampness gathering at the corners of his eyes. He’s certain if he looks at Geralt now, what little control he has over his emotions will crumble entirely. “I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?” Geralt presses, as if he doesn’t know. Surely, he must know. 

Except, maybe he doesn’t. There were reasons Jaskier had wanted to be rid of the soulmark that predated Geralt by years. If there’s anything Geralt is especially good at it’s underestimating how much he matters, in general but to Jaskier in particular. 

Jaskier lifts his forearm, finally risking a look. Where the mark was, only pale, unmarred skin is left behind. There’s no suggestion it was ever there at all. So that’s it. That’s truly it. Jaskier forces a watery sort of smile because this is the part that matters anyway. However badly it hurts, however raw and ragged he feels, he would do it again to spare the witcher the misery of their connection. “I couldn’t be another choice you didn’t get to make.”

He doesn’t have to look to recognize the scowl Geralt must be sporting. It bleeds into everything he says. “And you didn’t think you should maybe ask my opinion about this?” 

“Geralt...” Instinctively, Jaskier reaches out in Geralt’s direction, but he catches himself and tucks his hands back into the blanket. Geralt isn’t his anymore, after all. It’s with great effort that Jaskier digs up the courage to look at him. “Would you have let me?”

“ _No_.” Geralt visibly recoils from the idea of it. 

Jaskier’s breath shudders out of him. “Then I made the right choice.”

Somewhere along the line, Geralt has returned to the side of the room where Jaskier is, and the witcher gingerly sits at the edge of the empty side of the bed. “You almost died, Jaskier.”

As if Jaskier isn’t intimately aware of the price he’s paid. The ache of it still lingers right down to his bones. It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt, but he’d do it again. He’d do it a thousand times over to set Geralt free of destiny’s bindings. “I didn’t though. I’m not dead and you’re not stuck and that’s a happy ending all around, right?” 

“Hmm.” 

It’s been a while since Jaskier has heard a version of that sound that he can’t decipher the meaning of, but this time it’s a mystery. He feels the same as ever, but perhaps their bond really had been the only thing tying Geralt to him. The silence is oppressively heavy and as angry as Geralt had sounded, he feels like he’s got to do something. “I, um…”

“What?” It’s punctuated by a weary sigh, but tired is maybe better than ticked off. Maybe. 

He doesn’t even know what he meant to say, so he scrambles for the first thing he can think of to give Geralt the space he might need. “I’ll go get my own room if you want.” 

“Jaskier…” Another sigh, and Jaskier anticipates another irritated retort, but that’s not what he gets at all. Instead, Geralt’s palm smooths over his hair. “Go back to sleep.” 

*****

Much as he’d like to, Geralt can’t stay put _all_ the time. There are supplies to acquire. There is Roach to care for.

It would be just his luck that his most recent excursion is the one where Jaskier woke up… alone. “I’m sorry.” 

It’s the first thing Geralt has heard out of Jaskier in more than a day since their last fragmented conversation. As he watches Jaskier set aside the notebook he’d been scribbling something out on, the witcher lets out a relieved breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. 

Jaskier still looks a bit wretched as he stands up, every move laden with a weariness that has nothing to do with sleep. His hair hangs a bit limp from the bathwater Geralt had left him just in case. On bad days, Jaskier is usually in a better mood once he’s cleaned up, but it doesn’t look to have helped. 

He’s quieter than Geralt has ever seen him, withdrawn in a fashion that’s completely incongruous with everything Jaskier is. There’s no longer a veneer of warmth over them both, and whatever tether drew Geralt so ceaselessly in is severed and yet, nothing is different. Not really. There’s no bond telling him to love Jaskier, and so Geralt cherishes the urge to pull the bard into his arms anyway. At some point in the last couple of days, Geralt had worried that perhaps this was mismatched in the other direction, but watching Jaskier, it’s clear what letting go is costing him. 

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, making his way closer as Jaskier looks to be gathering up his belongings. 

“Leaving?” He watches Jaskier’s mouth twitch in barely restrained grief. “You don’t have to take me with you anymore, so I figured I probably ought to get a move on.” 

“I thought-” Geralt comes near enough to lay his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “-that the point was having a choice.” 

Jaskier freezes, his fingers clutching tightly at a doublet he’d been folding. “I… yes?”

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Geralt cracks a smile. “Then why are you so keen on making it for me?”

“You said yourself that a soulbond isn’t love,” Jaskier points out, thumb worrying anxiously at the fabric he’s holding. 

“It wasn’t. It couldn’t make me love you,” Geralt agrees, ignoring the way Jaskier’s face falls further. He gives in to the urge to close his hand around Jaskier’s, pulling until Jaskier drops the garment and all but stumbles into his embrace. The hitch in the bard’s breathing makes Geralt’s heart lurch, but he doesn’t withdraw. “That doesn’t mean I don’t.” 

“Geralt?”

“That is, hands down, the most idiotic thing you’ve ever done,” Geralt mutters, even as he folds his arms around Jaskier. “But if I’m making a choice...” 

Jaskier’s fingers curl desperately in the fabric of Geralt’s shirt like he’s a phantom the bard is trying to hang onto. A sigh trembles out into the crook of Geralt’s neck, and for a moment, he simply stays, content to let things be. When Jaskier finally pulls back a little, Geralt lets go with one hand to curl it under his former soulmate’s chin. “Then it’s this.”

Just like the first time Geralt kissed him, Jaskier melts into it. Unlike the time before, the bard makes no move to pull away. Nothing could be farther from the way Jaskier’s fingers tangle in Geralt’s shirt, as if to hold him captive. 

“Tell me again,” Jaskier mumbles between kisses that remain oddly chaste despite their feverish cadence.. 

Geralt has never been much for conversation, but after keeping Jaskier waiting all this time, it’s an impossible request to deny. He cradles the bard’s cheeks in his hands, pulling back enough to look Jaskier in the eye. “I love you.” 

It would be a lie to say Geralt had never considered what being certain of his own free will might be like, with nothing to tether him to a path laid out by destiny. He’s pictured it in broad strokes, but somehow it’s never included Jaskier all but tackling him to the bed, all finesse forgotten in his enthusiasm. It’s only when they’re half sprawled across the rumpled bedding, Jaskier’s knees caging Geralt’s hips that the bard abruptly freezes. “Sorry. I… I should’ve asked. I didn’t mean to assume.” 

With Jaskier there, flushed and breathing heavily and still worried about what Geralt wants, he’s never been happier to be wrong in his life. With fingers buried in Jaskier’s hair, damp strands of it bunching between his knuckles, Geralt tugs him back down. “Come here.” 

It’s all the permission Jaskier seems to need. He follows willingly when Geralt pulls, but he’s nothing at all like docile. It’s Jaskier who rests a forearm against the bedding so that he can kiss Geralt again, all his momentary restraint forgotten. 

Even without the bond to hold them, they’re a call and an answer. Jaskier teases Geralt’s lips apart with a clever tongue, determined to learn this part of him too. It’s unhurried, reverent even, and somewhere in the distance Geralt wonders why he ever thought this was something to run from. 

They kiss until Jaskier is forced to surrender to the very human need to breathe, and even then, he presses his cheek to Geralt’s panting against the witcher’s ear. Only it’s not just Jaskier’s tongue that’s clever. What seems like surrender is only a preamble to Jaskier’s mouth finding the delicate spot beneath Geralt’s ear that makes him shudder, arching helplessly upward. The move presses his cock against Jaskier’s, drawing a pleasantly shaky gasp. Geralt would happily live in this moment forever if it would make Jaskier make that sound again. 

It does draw Geralt’s attention to the entirely too many clothes they’re still wearing. He doesn’t say so exactly, but he does manage to get his point across by insistently rucking up the hem of Jaskier’s shirt until the bard huffs out an exasperated sort of sigh and sits up to be rid of the offending garment. The sacrifice of losing Jaskier’s lips on his throat is monumental, but when Jaskier sits up to tug the shirt over his head, he rolls his hips and all is forgotten. 

In some other context, Geralt might be embarrassed about how utterly inefficient they are. It’s hard to undress when every pause in contact feels like an unacceptable loss. The real miracle is probably that they manage at all. 

A miracle that is entirely worth it when Geralt has to get up to get rid of his boots. The last of his clothes follow immediately after, and when he looks up, Jaskier is watching him with dark, hooded eyes. “I don’t know what it is, but in some past life I must have done something very, _very_ good.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Geralt rumbles, following Jaskier’s beckoning fingers back to bed. 

“I’m a bard. It’s a job requirement.” The second Geralt is close enough, Jaskier winds his arms around the witcher’s shoulders and drags him down to the pillows. “Besides, have you looked at you? I think I get to be dramatic.” 

“You’re absurd.” Geralt cuts off any potential protest with an insistent kiss, thoroughly enjoying the way Jaskier goes slack and pliant beneath him. Only when he’s pretty certain Jaskier can’t hang onto the thought anymore does he stray, learning the edge of Jaskier’s jaw, the hollow of his throat. 

“You love it.” Jaskier combs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, whispering like he can’t quite believe it’s true. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, nosing against the crook of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder. Jaskier shivers beneath him, and oh _that’s_ interesting. After a moment’s consideration, Geralt bites down and Jaskier whines, high pitched and needy. 

The sound goes straight to Geralt’s cock and brings with it a desperate need to watch Jaskier come apart. So, much as he’d like to linger, they’re far too wound up for that. 

“Geralt? What are you-” Jaskier mumbles as Geralt backs up towards the foot of the bed, as if it’s not glaringly obvious. Apparently to Jaskier’s lust addled mind it isn’t. Geralt takes him in his mouth with little preamble, and Jaskier’s question dies in a choked off moan. 

“Oh god, oh fuck,” Jaskier’s mutters out a ragged curse as Geralt sinks down as far as he can go. There will be time to learn all the things Jaskier likes, and Geralt has every intention of doing so, but right now all he cares about is the way his one time soulmate is beginning to unravel. 

Jaskier clutches at the sheets, at Geralt’s hair, anything he can reach really as the witcher falls into a relentless rhythm. There are no tricks, just the pleasant weight of Jaskier’s cock on his tongue as Geralt learns this part of his lover too. He gets litany of inarticulate praise for his trouble and Jaskier trembling with the effort not to jerk his hips. 

“I. Oh, I-” Jaskier mumbles, pushing halfheartedly at Geralt’s shoulder in what the witcher assumes is an attempt to be polite. Instead of pulling away, Geralt pins Jaskier’s hips to the mattress, pushing him over the edge. Jaskier arches off the mattress, Geralt’s name on his lips like a prayer. 

When Geralt crawls back up the length of the bed, Jaskier’s chest is still heaving. He clumsily reaches for Geralt, settling a hand on the witcher’s cheek. “Let me?” 

Geralt had thought his feelings on the matter were fairly obvious, but he dips his head to catch Jaskier’s lips in a ravenous sort of kiss for good measure. Jaskier makes a soft sound into it, and if he cares that he can taste himself on Geralt’s tongue, he certainly doesn’t show it. 

Jaskier wastes little time, and really, it’s not such a surprise after all the time they’ve held back. His warm palms rove over Geralt’s flanks and hips before Jaskier works a hand between them. 

Objectively, Jaskier’s hand around his cock isn’t all that much different from his own, but it comes with teeth scraping playfully across his bottom lip, and Jaskier’s free hand indulgently mapping out the length of Geralt’s back, and he really can’t complain about any of that. 

He could do this forever, he thinks, or wishes it at least. They trade long overdue kisses, and Geralt feels his balance waver just a little in the face of it all. There’s a particular sort of twist to the way Jaskier strokes him and Geralt wonders if it’s something he does to himself. The thought, as much as anything Jaskier is doing, is what sends him crashing over the edge. There’s no silencing the keening sound he makes, but Geralt muffles it against Jaskier’s lips as he comes in wet pulses across the bard’s belly. Somehow, Jaskier doesn’t seem to care much about that either. 

By some miracle, he manages to shuffle to the side before collapsing on the bedding. It’s a nice place to be, Jaskier immediately rolling over to hook an arm around his side. Pleasantly hazy as he is, Geralt wonders how he could have ever thought he didn’t want this. 

For a few moments, there’s nothing but the sound of them catching their breath, and Geralt almost misses the embarrassed grimace gracing Jaskier’s face. “That, umm. Sorry, it’s not usually over so quickly.”

Geralt laughs before he can quite help himself. It was exactly what he’d expected because he’s a reasonable person who understands biology, but he catches on quickly that that’s somehow not the conclusion Jaskier came to. Before the bard can gather his wits enough to be upset, Geralt pulls him into a kiss already full of promise. “I mean, I just figured round one was to take the edge off. I hope you didn’t think I was done with you.” 

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier mumbles, nipping at Geralt’s jawline. “I definitely did something good.”

*****

“I cannot express to you how egregiously overdue that was,” Jaskier teases, already beginning to doze off. He smiles into the column of Geralt’s neck as the witcher’s nails skim his back. 

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

For once, Jaskier doesn’t feel much of a need for conversation and so he’s surprised to be pulled into one, feeling the rumble of Geralt’s voice as much as hearing him. “Jaskier?” 

“Hmm? Jaskier tilts his head enough to meet Geralt’s curious golden eyes. 

“Did you get your answer?” The question is so vague that Jaskier doesn’t realize what Geralt is talking about until he adds. “Is this the life you’d choose for yourself?” 

And… it is. Singing in taverns, exploring the Continent? It’s the most comfortable he’s ever been, and all the better with Geralt at his side. If it’s only once in his life that his luck holds out, Jaskier is glad that this is the time. 

“I think my next ballad is going to be about the fact that I don’t think I’m going to be able to sit down for days,” Jaskier offers in lieu of an answer. 

“Absolutely not,” Geralt replies flatly, but Jaskier catches the faint twitch of his mouth. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jaskier agrees in mock seriousness. “A ballad is entirely the wrong style. Sea shanty? … Jig, maybe? Or how about-” 

The rest is stifled by the pillow Geralt flings in his face. “You’re not writing a song.” 

Tossing the pillow aside, Jaskier presses. “What? You don’t want your prowess immortalized in folklore?”

It’s as far as he gets before Geralt pins him to the bed, any threat of it entirely ruined by the fact that he’s dropped his head to laugh against Jaskier’s shoulder. “Fuck off, bard.” 

Those words ruined his life once. But now, no longer a sentence scrawled on his skin but an affectionate, breathless insult, it’s the best thing Jaskier has ever heard. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi! You can find me [on Tumblr](https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/) or [ this one](https://drowningbydegrees-fanworks.tumblr.com/) if you're only interested in fanworks.  
> Sometimes, I also exist on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/DrownByDegrees)  
> 


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